Go to Chapter List
CHAPTER NINE ene, my third son, was born six weeks
premature in a Glendale
clinic that didn't have an
incubator. The doctor, almost in a panic, told us Gene would need
to be taken to a hospital
with proper facilities to care for him. Informing Mary we would
return for her as soon as we
delivered the baby to the hospital Mom and I hurried Gene to the
car. It was an unusually hot
day for October and the refrigeration in the car wasn't working.
Serving to worsen the baby's
difficulty with breathing. I urged Mother to hurry. Mom, inching
down the gas peddle, drove
as fast as common sense permitted. Nonetheless, Gene's skin was
blue when we arrived at
the hospital and neither of us thought the baby would survive.
Inside the hospital we spent two anxious hours waiting.
Finally, the doctor reported.
In addition to being six weeks premature, the baby had suffered
severe oxygen deprivation.
Likely there would be some degree of brain damage. How severe
this damage would be, only
time could tell.
Gene's problems didn't show up until after he started
school. However, in his first
year of school, they became distinctively noticeable. Six years
old, he would eat his lunch on
the way to school and then replace it with a dog bone or a
handful of dirt. When his teacher
questioned him on the contents of his lunch box, he insisted we
had sent him to school with
such a meal. Somehow, he convinced them. The school authorities
called, threatening us with
Child Welfare if we continued sending him to school without an
adequate lunch. Our
protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears.
Rio Vista Elementary School was the poorest school in the district with the most inadequate personnel, which may explain the inadequacy of the teachers. The school district couldn't afford competent people. Still, as inadequate as they were, they should have known Gene was lying. If not at first, certainly after he began acting out in the cafeteria. Completely out of control, running around from table to table, he knocked over chairs, threw dishes, punched other kids, and, in general, caused a considerable disturbance. Once again his teacher called Mary and me with a threatening admonishment. ``If you can't control your child, we will be forced to notify Child Welfare. Your child is disrupting class and is a holy terror in the lunch room. It's your responsibility to see that his behavior is appropriate.'' After reflection I sent a scathing reply. I reproached them for their inadequacy, informing them that Gene's behavior at home was within normal variance. If he was causing trouble in school it was their failure to control him, not mine or Mary's. ``If you can't control him when he's at the school, what can we do? You're there, we aren't. Give him a good swift swat on the rear when he's causing trouble, that should settle him down.''
Rio Vista, reacting to my letter, called Child Welfare. Enter Tish Lohe, not quite five foot tall, broad shouldered, stocky, and without a doubt the most insensitive, constipated, masculinized dowager I ever had the displeasure to meet. Her ratty dishwater blonde hair was done up in a bun so tight her eyes looked oriental and the expression on her face could only have been caused by sucking a lemon while severely constipated. Wearing austerely tailored suits and swaggering when she walked, she had the general carriage of the Sheriff of Dodge City, or General Patton on the battlefield. How such an insensitive woman became involved in social work was a mystery; a job as a prison guard would have seemed more appropriate. Tish, having investigated our family, was aware of every detail of our personal life. Figuratively, she came in toting a gun on her hip and prattling, ``I'm the law and the only law in these here sits-e-ations and if'n the teachers at Rio Vista sez you been mistreaten' your kids, wal' then you been mistreaten' your kids. Now, whatcha' gonna do about it, pardner?'' The excellent grades of Larry and James, James's chess trophies, all the boys, along with Mary and I, telling her about our many activities as a family meant nothing to her. According to her, the boys were lying, Mary and I were lying, and all of us were covering up abuse and neglect. The absence of physical evidence didn't serve to diminish her conviction. However, our main point of conflict, was my adamant refusal to give Gene Ritalin. The school authorities at Rio Vista wanted to give him Ritalin to make him manageable at school. He would be manageable all right. Ritalin turned children into mindless obedient vegetables, compliant apathetic zombies. Both New York and California had rejected the drug as improper and dangerous treatment for hyperactive kids. When I informed Tish that more educated states rejected Ritalin, her caustic remark was, ``This is Arizona, not California or New York. We want Gene on Ritalin and if you know what's good for you, you'll do what we tell you to do.'' This was the on going battle with Tish even before the Hattie affair stirred things up. It was still raging when I took the boys out of school and went to Indianapolis and it continued to rage between Mary and Tish while we were away. The day I came back from Searchlight, Mary and Tish had a screaming contest. Mary obstinately insisted she was taking the children to Disneyland before putting them back in school. Tish, equally stubborn, alleged the boys had already missed too much school and no matter how smart they were, the school lost money every day a child was absent. Mary, screaming insanely, declared she didn't give a damn what Tish thought, she was taking the boys to Disneyland. Tish left in a huff, threatening to return with a court order.
Neither Mary nor I were seriously concerned over her threat, after all, in a free country, no one could have such power. I assured Mary that everything would be fine. We were together, the boys were happy, intelligent, and healthy. There was no possible way Tish could carry out her threat. If worst came to worst we would end up in a court of law, where we would most assuredly prevail. After all, this was the United States of America, not some third world dictatorship. That evening, a Friday, at approximately eight o'clock, while the boys and I were playing Monopoly, there was a knock on the door. When I opened the door I was astonished to see half the law enforcement officers of Phoenix and Maricopa County on my doorstep and spreading out across my yard. There were four carloads of cops, detectives, and deputy sheriffs. ``These men couldn't be here to take four little kids,'' I thought to myself, ``this force could have taken Vietnam.'' ``What's wrong?'' I asked the officer at the door. I noted the red lights were flashing on two of the cars, one of which was marked POLICE and the other marked SHERIFF DEPARTMENT. The other two cars were unmarked. A couple of men, weapons drawn, could be seen circling to the back of the house. Five or six men, some uniformed, some not, were milling around the front yard, and a similar number crowded on to the small front porch. ``We have a warrant to pick up your kids,'' sternly stated the burly cop pushing his way through the door with drawn revolver in hand. ``We don't want no trouble.'' The kids, having more presence of mind than I, had run to their bedroom and locked the door. We had talked about Tish's threat of course, but no one believed she would go through with it. Five men followed the first man in, none of these, as yet, had drawn their weapons, although one of them saw a cap gun on the floor and dismantled it. As if a cap gun could be a threat against this occupying army. The first officer, having seen the boys duck into their room, pounded on their bedroom door. The kids, terrified, screamed at the top of their lungs for the cops to go away. The officer with the drawn gun screamed back that they weren't going to go away and they should open the God damn door. Then he turned to me and said, ``You can make this easy on your kids, or you can make it hard.'' ``How about putting the gun away?'' I requested in a deceptively calm voice. In reality my heart was pounding a hole through my chest. ``No one here's threatening you.'' Holstering the gun he ordered, ``Okay! Now, get the kids out here.'' I heard one of the officers behind me whispering to another, ``This ain't right. Something's wrong here. Hell, they were playing monopoly when we got here.'' Another man answered, ``We still have to take 'em in.'' ``Come on out kids,'' I called through the door. ``There's some kind of mistake, but we can't do anything about it tonight. Open the door.'' The door opened and the boys stood in the doorway, white faced and frightened. Larry held a bat and James held a broom handle, both boys were prepared to fight. Gene was behind the older boys with his fists doubled. The man I overheard whispering exclaimed, ``Aw, Christ. They're ready to take us all on. Man, I hate this job.'' ``What do you want us to do?'' asked Larry turning to me with big eyes. ``You'll have to go with these officers. We'll get a lawyer Monday and straighten everything out. There's been a mistake. This isn't supposed to happen, not in this country. Fighting these guys won't do us any good. They're just doing their job.'' Anton, almost two years old and awakened by the racket, wandered out of his room. As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, one of the men swept him up in his arms. ``Are you supposed to take him too?'' I asked. ``Yeah, I think so,'' answered the cop. ``Where are you taking them?'' ``We aren't allowed to tell you,'' he replied with a sympathetic glance. ``but it's here in Phoenix, on the east side. They'll be safe.'' Then he added, ``This ain't right, mister. You get to know when its right and when it's not. I sure hope you can get it all straightened out.'' How did Tish Lohe carry out her threat? What manner of society puts so much power in the hands of one individual that they can get a court order without so much as a hearing? Tish was steamed at Mary and acted out of spite, not out of the best interest for the children. The boys weren't abused, nor in any danger, yet this enraged woman, with the complicity of the Arizona state judicial system, was able to vent her anger through the system. The next day was Saturday. I wouldn't be able to get a lawyer until Monday, although late Saturday afternoon Anton was returned home. The warrant had specified school-aged children. Taking Anton had been illegal. Anton, nearly two years old, was an aware child and I asked him if he knew where the other boys had been taken. He nodded that he did. Climbing into the Ranchero I started off in the direction the police had taken the night before. Anton pointing the way, I drove a short distance down Broadway to 19th avenue. Anton pointed to the left, north up 19th avenue. We drove along 19th avenue for a long time and then, at the Camelback intersection, Anton pointed at a Dairy Queen where, he said, the police had bought them ice cream cones. We turned right on Camelback. Arriving at 32nd Street I became discouraged. It didn't seem like we were getting anywhere. I turned around and went home. The following morning, Sunday, I asked Anton once again if he knew where the boys were being held. He nodded that he did. I decided to give it one more try. Once more Anton led me on the same route as he had on Saturday. Maybe he knew something after all. It was, after all, the same route. This time I kept going past 32nd street and Camelback. When we reached 36th Street Anton pointed at a house. ``There,'' he said. ``There,'' he repeated pointing at a white house across the street. Making a left turn on 36th Street I wheeled around the backside of the house, and in the backyard, sitting on a bench talking, were Larry and James. The yard was big, and surrounded by a three foot wire fence. As I pulled up and parked alongside the fence the boys saw me and came running. They wanted to know if I wanted them to escape and come home. ``Maybe later,'' I said, ``We're calling a lawyer, Monday. Let's see what he says first. We'll get you back legally if we can. If not, then you can escape and we'll leave the state. I just wanted you to know that your mother and I love you and one way or another you won't be here long.'' ``Hey you,'' yelled a burly man coming out the back door. ``You aren't allowed here.'' ``Just leaving!'' I yelled back. ``You guys watch for me,'' I said, ``I'll be back.''
Two weeks later the two older boys were returned home. Tish had taken the boys to three different psychologists trying to get one of them to say the children were abused and should be taken from us. The first two reported that all three were emotionally stable, showed no evidence of having been abused, and should be returned to the family immediately. The third psychologist found the two older boys were stable, but recommended Gene be placed in a foster home and medicated with Ritalin. Tish threw out the opinions of the first two psychologists, keeping only the report from the third. What Tish did was illegal, searching until she found someone who would agree with her. Worse, the foster home where the boys had been assigned, was outrageous. Larry and James described what went on there. Gene, having acted up with one of the guards, had been tied to a baby crib and left that way through the night. Another guard, a younger man, sexually molested a nine year old girl, forcing her to perform fellatio. Both of the boys had seen it. The next day, when the little girl tried to tell the other guards, he slapped her and called her a liar. According to Larry the other workers believed him when he said, ``Ah, these kids are all screwed up by their families. They're all trouble makers.'' Later, from the boys, I learned more about this Hell House. Breakfast was a small box of corn flakes and a glass of milk to pour over it. Lunch was a bowl of tomato soup and a slice of bread, and supper was french fries and a greasy hamburger. Everyday was the same, no variation and no seconds. Disgusted, three days after being taken away, the two older boys escaped and were gone for two days. Mary and I were never notified. Two young children, our children, wandered the streets of Phoenix for two days and we weren't informed. On the evening of the second day, hunger drove the boys back to the foster home. When they returned they were sent to their room without anything to eat. In the morning they were served the usual fare, a box of corn flakes and a glass of milk. During the time they were held as prisoners of the State of Arizona, the boys didn't attend one day of school. Mary could have taken the kids to Disneyland and returned. The kids would have been back in school none the worse for the experience. Instead of one week at Disneyland, thanks to Tish Lohe, they spent two weeks incarcerated and traumatized.
The lawyer I retained was virtually useless. I told him everything that had happened, the absolute truth, hoping to arm him with accurate information. Much later, I would discover that telling the truth had worked to our disadvantage. Apparently most clients exaggerate and this lawyer's method of determining truth was to seek the middle ground, the half way point between what his client tells him and what the other side is saying. In our case the half-way point between Tish's ass covering story and my attempt to be honest made us seem in the wrong. Some time would pass before the lawyer confessed that, had he believed us at the first, he could have had all three boys immediately released and returned. In the absence of any concrete suggestions on his part, I inquired about moving to another state. If we moved to California, could I force Arizona to give Gene back. The lawyer advised us that there was no guarantee, but there was a good chance. He wanted to know if I was serious about leaving the state to get my son back and when I assured him that I was, only then did he believe what I had been telling him, that I loved my kids and would do anything to protect them. When my family learned we were moving to California there was an uproar heard to the sunny shores of Los Angeles. My mother and father thought it was a terrible mistake. Mary didn't want to quit Motorola and suggested Gene would be better off if we left him in the foster home. Even my friends thought we should let the state keep him. These attitudes served only to intensify my resolve. Gene was a little boy, a scared little boy with immense problems. Giving him up to the state would shred what little self-esteem he had. I couldn't let that happen. Strangely however, the person most opposed to my leaving the state was Marge, my High Priestess. ``What will happen to our covenstead if you leave?'' she shrieked, her eyes bursting with rage ``Marge, you're a grown woman, a High Priestess, it's up to you to keep it together. Gene's just a child. He's my son and he needs me.'' ``Damn it! You're deserting me! If you leave, I never want to see you again,'' she said, playing her last trump card. As much as I loved her, Marge couldn't sway me. ``I'm sorry you feel that way,'' I replied regretfully. Turning her back to me she walked away without a backward glance. True to her word, I never saw Marge again.
Other than myself, Gene was the only person who kept the faith, and, although I wasn't allowed to talk to him except on weekends, he was confident I would eventually bring him home. Until, that is, he learned we were moving to California. Even after I explained that it was the surest and quickest solution to our problem, he was still understandably frightened. It meant no more weekly visits and the only contact with the family would be through letters. Even through the drug induced haze of Ritalin he knew he would be all alone. My heart felt like it was breaking when he looked up at me with big sorrowful eyes and said, ``Okay! If that's what you got to do, but hurry. I don't like it here.'' We moved to Hollywood, tinsel town, and occupied a two bedroom upstairs apartment on Los Feliz Boulevard. Hollywood, was a disappointment. All the stories, myths, and legends about the alleged ``Glamour Capital of the World'' turned out to be nothing more than illusion. Perhaps, once upon a time, Hollywood may have been glamorous, but when we were there it was a tacky little town where prostitutes mingled on the street with the homeless, where wandering drunks slept on the street alongside drug addicts, and then there were the runaways. Kids who spent their restless nights walking litter strewn streets more appropriate to a third world country than to the richest nation in the world. It was a disturbing revelation to discover the harsh reality of Hollywood. Of course Phoenix had spoiled me. I had been used to buildings that sparkled, fairly scintillating in the intense sunlight, and it was safe to walk the streets at night.
Still, there were some positive aspects. California school authorities were more understanding than those in Arizona. Country bumpkins with delusions of being gunslingers were not put in charge of Children's Welfare, nor did they believe that intelligent children develop in a vacuum. They were aware that intelligent kids meant someone had spent time with them, as I had spent time with mine. Moreover, they agreed with my opposition to forced drug treatment and respected my efforts to protect Gene. With their support, advice, and assistance, and one long year of paperwork and legal machinations, Gene was finally set free. In our little blue rocket, the Ford Ranchero, I rushed to Phoenix to pick Gene up. When I arrived at the foster home the boy I picked up was nothing like the boy we had known. Morose, silent, and submissive, he showed little reaction to the news he was coming home, a wan smile was the best he could manage. It was as if there was no little boy left in him, just the husk of a child remained. As we readied to leave his foster mother handed me his suitcase and a bottle of pills. She instructed me to give him three pills a day. I looked at the label. It was Ritalin. I handed the pills back to her, ``He won't be needing these.'' Arriving in L.A., Gene was listless, the spunky little boy with the attitude was gone. He had no interest in watching television or reading comic books, no interest in horsing around with his brothers, no interest in anything. Sometimes he would sit on the sofa for hours at a time, just staring, sometimes he would lay down and sleep. What I had feared most had happened. Would it pass? I didn't know.
Weeks passed as Gene slowly started to wake from his drug induced stupor. Eventually he returned to normal, normal for Gene. The long fight had been worth it. Even the nay sayers recanted, admitting that it would have been a tragedy to leave the boy in the care of the Arizona authorities. Yes, the long fight was over; but we hadn't won. Gene had lost a year of his life, our family had been uprooted and moved to another state, even friendships had been lost. There had been worry, strain, and expense; we hadn't won a damn thing. We had prevailed, but the price had been excessive. Tish Lohe, through the Child Welfare System of Arizona, had kidnapped my son, altered the course of our lives, and robbed a child of a year of his life, all because she could. How many other times had she lost her temper and abused her power? How many other Tish Lohes were there in the Child Welfare System of Arizona? Finding work in L.A. wasn't easy, but, after three weeks of searching, I landed a job at Wells Fargo Insurance in Pasadena. I was a computer operator again. It was a big let down. Not only had I lost the many fringe benefits of working for the City Government, my paycheck, in a more expensive city, was substantially less than I had been making. I was not overjoyed and my lackluster performance on the job reflected my attitude. If these problems weren't sufficient, there was another problem. It showed itself one night at work during one of the infamous L.A. smog alerts. In the middle of printing out the payroll checks I began to gasp for air. This was followed almost immediately by sharp stabbing pains in my lungs. In a panic, I called the paramedics and then found a chair and sat down, trying to remain calm while struggling to catch my breath. When the paramedics arrived they herded me into an ambulance and rushed me to the nearest hospital. At the hospital I was shown to a room holding half a dozen oxygen bottles with long green hoses ending in ungainly and uncomfortable appearing black mouthpieces. Three other people, sitting on straight back chairs, were in the room ahead of me and they were sucking air from these strange contrivances. Oddly, I thought, all of them were wearing street clothes. One man was casually reading a newspaper. The natural acceptance of breathing difficulties, evidenced by the scene before me, was frightening. What kind of a place was Los Angeles? When the doctor released me, about an hour later, he made light of the episode. ``New to L.A., aren't you?'' he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. ``At first newcomers have difficulty adjusting to our air, especially during smog alerts. Give it a little time, you'll adjust,'' he continued, flashing a patronizing smile. I didn't want to adjust. I didn't want to live in Los Angeles, if you can call it living. The smog was the final straw. My mental processes had seemed fuzzy from the first day I arrived, not to mention a persistent tightness in my chest. Other people didn't seem to be aware of any difficulties, but I noticed a difference. Everyone I met seemed to float, almost lethargically, as they went about their activities. The vibrant vitality, the explosive energy, of the people I knew in Phoenix wasn't there. It also wasn't there for me. I caught myself making careless mistakes on the job, mistakes I would never have made in Phoenix. These mistakes weren't sufficient cause to fire me, but I knew my employer wasn't happy, and I suspected that the next general lay off would find me cut from the payroll.
Which was precisely what happened. A few difficult and jobless weeks after being laid off, the bills mounting and the Credit Union threatening to repossess the Ranchero, Mary and I decided to move our family back to Arizona. We would have to return the Ranchero to the Motorola Federal Credit Union, but, if we were careful, we would have sufficient capital left to rent a house in Phoenix. However, if we were going to do it, we had to do it soon. In another month the Credit Union would seize the car and our meager capital would be spent. After which, we wouldn't have enough money to move, nor to pay rent. The prospect of being on the street with a family of four kids was not pleasant. We moved quickly, while we had the time and opportunity. The following week we were situated in a pleasant three bedroom house on the east side of Phoenix paying less than half what we had been paying for a small, cramped, upstairs apartment in Hollywood. On the first day, after we had unloaded our belongings and moved them into the house, I turned the Ranchero in to the Credit Union. There was no use wasting time. I explained our financial bind, apologized that it had come to this, and thanked them for having financed us. The man I talked to was surprisingly congenial and thanked me for coming in. He even expressed sympathy for our financial difficulties. With all, it was good to be home. My spirits had brightened considerably, as had my employment prospects. Shortly after arriving home I went to work as a Data Control Specialist at Pharmaceutical Card Systems (PCS). My mind seemed sharp again, crystal clear with no fuzzy edges. My confidence had returned and I knew I would fit comfortably into this company. Fate, however, was preparing yet another surprise.
Two weeks after I started working for PCS, at thirty five years of age, I had a heart attack. With all the stress I had been under, not to mention the L.A. smog, perhaps I should have expected it, but I didn't. When the pains started I was at home, in the back bedroom. I was painting a decorative Roman chess set. Just as I finished touching up the moustache on the white king, I noticed a numbness in my hands and feet. Puzzled, I put my work down and stood up. Walking around the room I tried to shake the strange uncomfortable feeling, but the numbness intensified and now there was a slight bit of nausea. Making my way to the bathroom I drew myself a hot bath. A hot soak in the tub, I trusted, would make me feel better. Settling into the tub, surrounded by hot water, the symptoms intensified. All sensation in my hands and feet was gone and the feeling of nausea had become a heavy presence in my stomach. Barely able to crawl out of the tub I was amazed that my hands and feet obeyed me; I couldn't feel them. As I slipped into my trousers a tremendous ache spread across my back, and radiated down my left arm. It settled in my elbow. My chest hurt too; it felt like someone had parked a semi-truck on it. Slowly, as if moving through a thick fog, I made my way to Mary's room and woke her. Calmly I suggested she call an ambulance. Mary, briefly quizzing me, made the call. Struggling to walk, I made my way back into the living room to await the paramedics. Mary followed, a concerned look accompanied her. I tried sitting down, but it made the pain worse. I waited standing up. When the paramedics arrived they requested that I lie down on a stretcher. Having tried to sit down before they arrived I knew I wouldn't be able to lie down. I started walking toward the ambulance. ``You have to lie down on the stretcher, sir. We can't let you walk,'' said one of the paramedics. ``What are you going to do, fight with me?'' I asked smiling, but not slowing my halting stumble toward the waiting ambulance. Outside the neighbors had gathered around in a semi-circle to gawk. I looked at them, laughed weakly, and stuck my thumb up in the air. ``We all die sometime!'' I quipped, my bravado easing a bit of my anxiety. I climbed in the back of the ambulance, and was almost inside, when one of the paramedics said, ``Sir, don't go in that way. Use the side door. It'll be easier.'' I looked at the bench in front of me. A single movement and I would be sitting on it. I looked at the paramedic. His eyes were wide and there was a youthful innocence about him. I shrugged. ``What the hell,'' I thought, ``he meant well.'' Crawling back down I walked to the side door and climbed inside. After the examination in the emergency room I overheard the doctor tell Mary I was having a heart attack and that they wouldn't know the severity until they made further tests. To do the tests I would have to be admitted to the hospital. Shortly I found myself in a private room hooked up to a heart monitor, an IV in my arm, and oxygen being piped through a tube in my nose. It was a miserable experience and, on top of everything, no one was talking to me, not even to tell me if I was going to live or die.
Mary was holding my hand. We were alone in the room for the moment and looking up at her I remarked, ``I guess I'll never have the operation now.'' The operation I was referring to, of course, was sex reconstructive surgery. ``I guess you won't,'' she snapped testily. Letting go of my hand, she left the room. For three days afterward, my first three days in the hospital, I didn't see or hear from her again. Frantic, I called my mother and asked why Mary wasn't coming to visit me. I hadn't had a visit or a call from her since the day I had been admitted. Mom explained that Mary was angry and didn't want to see me right now. I tried calling Mary, but it was futile, she refused to accept my calls. I didn't understand. What was she angry about? Didn't she give a damn about me? What had I done to piss her off? Didn't it matter that I was in the hospital with a heart attack? Mary finally came to the hospital. On the fourth day, she apologized and declared that my remark about the operation had set her off. ``I married a man,'' she declared, ``and I don't want to be married to a woman.'' I wondered, what kind of a woman I had married, to desert me in the middle of a crisis? She would never realize how much her absence hurt, how much I had needed her support, or how abandoned I felt. Why couldn't she, just this once, have put aside her own feelings, at least until I recovered? It didn't seem she cared whether I lived or died, as long as I did it as a man.
When I came home I was a changed person. I now knew that I wasn't immortal. I also ceased to see my marriage through rose colored glasses. If I had things to do, things to learn, experiences to have, then it was time to get on with them. Recognizing that Mary was looking out for her own interests, with little concern for mine, I no longer felt as strongly attached to her. The first year after my heart attack was the hardest. During that year I had chest pain, shortness of breath, and perspired heavily with the slightest exertion. My doctor advised a low salt diet and moderate exercise. That, and a prescription for high blood pressure, was the extent of it. Cardiac counseling wasn't mentioned. My mortality hanging before me, a heavy cloud of darkness vividly apparent, I pondered on the meaning of life, my life. Questions came to mind, like ``Why had I been born?''and `` Who was I?'' Hell, I had one more question than most people ever have to ask, ``What was I?'' One thought kept repeating, I didn't want to die not knowing what I was. Was I a man or a woman? I put an ad in an adult paper called the World Beat. ``Pre-op Transsexual, romantic, 35, attractive, seeks older men interested in dating. Call xxx-xxxx'' After my experiences with David and Glen I realized I had enjoyed being a woman with a man. Not the sexual activities, I could take them or leave them, but the emotional satisfaction. With this in mind, I once again began taking past midnight walks. This time with intent. Dressing in a short red skirt, a silky black long-sleeved peasant blouse, black pumps, panty hose, a dark wig, and a red silk babushka, I attracted the attention I was seeking. Everything I wore had a purpose. The babushka diminished the sharp angles of my profile making me look younger and more feminine and a tight belt forced my hips out as my waist was pulled in, reshaping my body to a more feminine form. The high heels gave a jiggle to my walk and the red mini skirt was an advertisement, a red flag waving at every bull that passed. Most of the time I was satisfied with a wolf whistle or two. If someone tried to pick me up that was delightful, but I'd walk on ignoring them. If they screamed ``Bitch'' after I ignored them, that was a bonus, it meant they had seen nothing more than a woman. Their lewdness made me feel good. I wanted them to want me, and I regretted having to reject them. If I had been able, in order to establish that I was a woman, I would have made it with the lot of them. Of course, had I been born female, not plagued with self-doubt, I wouldn't have needed these walks. As it was, however, here I was, and if the guy trying to pick me up looked safe, I went with him. First, he had to be older. Someone I thought I could handle if the need arose. Second, he had to look friendly, and third, he had to be clean and well groomed. I wouldn't get in a car with Rambo, Grumpy, or a Scuzzbucket. Once in the car, if a man treated me well, kissing and fondling me a bit, with some light and pleasant conversation, I would reward him by giving him what he wanted. None of this was especially pleasant, but it felt good to be with someone who thought of me as a woman. I was willing to pay the price for that experience. Now, with my ad in the World Beat, I expected to meet and date guys who knew I was transsexual. Would I still turn them on? The guys picking me up on the street, to the best of my knowledge, had never known I was transsexual. What of Mary during my adventures? I wondered about her. There were times she wanted to know precisely what I did on my dates, down to the smallest detail, almost seeming to get a vicarious thrill out of sharing some of my stories. At other times, I could do what I wanted but she didn't want to hear about it. Mary only imposed one rule on my dating, a minor consideration. I wasn't to let anyone touch her play toy. What a sweet deal. The last thing in the world I wanted any man to do was to touch that part of me. Being with a man, caressed and stroked by a man, sent electric sensations all over my body, but her little play toy never stirred. Moreover, coming down off an adventure, I came home primed to satisfy Mary's needs. She'd pull her plaything out of my panties, work on it a few minutes, and then she'd mount me and have a gay old time. Partly, it was her way of testing me to insure I had kept my promise, but she liked it too. She liked it a lot. Actually, it seemed everyone liked it a lot. Everyone but me. Mary even came to look forward to my walks with certain enthusiasm. Invariably it inspired a night of wild lovemaking once I returned. There was one little revenge I took, unbeknownst to her. Although even that worked to her advantage. I delayed and, when I could, denied ejaculation. She liked the feel of squirt inside of her and I withheld it. Besides, ejaculation had always been painful for me and it was so frightfully messy. It was enough to have erections without making that white gooey mess. After a couple of months of dating, I let Vonna in on what I was doing. Vonna, having just read ``The Happy Hooker'' by Xaveria Hollander, was excited. She suggested, if I was going to screw around anyway, why not get paid for it. If I would, she would act as my pimp and sometimes join in the action. The idea took me by storm. Why, my goodness, a guy paying for sex just might make a girl feel real feminine. Besides, money was always useful. Mary would be the only obstacle! Doing guys for free was one thing, but would she agree to taking their money? Ah, where is the woman, heart so pure, fed up with the men in her life, who has not thought, ``Damn, what a waste. What did it get me? I could have been a hooker, at least I'd have made some money.'' This, a woman's fantasy of using men as men use women, isn't a bad idea once you get used to it. Mary wasn't thrilled at first. She felt sorry for the guys. Why should they have to pay for sex? Mary had this thing about men; they could do no wrong. Still, she was willing to go along with Vonna and me, if I gave her five dollars from every trick. Ha, my wife wanted her cut. Amusing! And no problem! She could have all the money for all I cared. Which was good, because that was how it worked out. She got all the money. I had all the fun. Once the money started rolling in Mary settled in quite nicely. You could see cash registers in her eyes every time the phone rang. Vonna and I shared a naive view of hooking that was one part fantasy, one part careless abandon, and one part abysmal ignorance. When Mary gave her consent Vonna and I were delirious with joy. Holding hands and skipping down the street we sang at the top of our voices.
``A HOOKING WE WILL GO, A HOOKING WE WILL GO, HEIGH HO, MY DERRI-ERE, A HOOKING WE WILL GO.'' Hooking was nothing more than another thrilling romp, a fun-filled frolic for the dynamic duo. We were in for an abrupt awakening. Screwing around for fun is one thing, screwing around on demand is an entirely different matter. We placed a new ad in the World Beat: Pre-op transsexual, 35, 5'11'', nice figure, attractive, fun-loving and affectionate; and female, 21, 5'2'', nice figure, attractive, fun-loving, and affectionate; want to meet generous men. Call xxx-xxxx Ask for Veronica. The name Veronica was a precaution. You never know who reads those sex tabloids. God forbid any of our relatives should see our name and compare telephone numbers. We joked about the possibility of one my relatives or hers showing up at our door, as a customer. It was an amusing thought. Installing a dimmer switch in the living room, I set my stereo to a station with soft romantic music, provided light wine, and kept the room spotless. My outfit was a floor length black dress emblazoned with orange leaves. It unbuttoned down the front. I wore nude panty hose and black accessories. It was a daytime business only, conducted when my sons were away at school, nine to three. The day the ad came out the phone began ringing off the hook. ``Hello!'' I'd answer in my softest voice. ``Are you the ladies with the ad for generous men?'' ``Yes we are!'' ``What do we get and how generous do we have to be?'' ``Well, the way we operate, for both your protection and ours, is simple. You're a friend of ours and you're just coming over for a romantic interlude. We have soft music, soft lighting, wine if you like, and, of course, we're very affectionate. We never ask for money since that would cause legal difficulties, but, because you're a friend, you leave twenty dollars as a gift on the coffee table as you leave.'' ``What about disease?'' ``Both of us are free from disease.'' Vonna knew a veteran hooker who had never had a problem with disease. Her secret, she assured us, was douching and gargling immediately after every trick. Vonna and I followed her example. It worked. Neither Vonna nor I ever contracted so much as a cold. Cleanliness I suspect, next to condoms, is a hooker's best friend. ``Are you a man or a woman?'' ``I'm transsexual.'' ``You sound like a woman.'' ``Thank you! I think you'll find I look and act like a woman.'' ``I hope you don't think I'm strange, but having sex with you sounds erotic as hell. It turns me on just thinking about it.'' ``I don't think that sounds strange at all. Many of the men who call have the same feelings. I think you'll find we can have fun together.'' In the first eight days my total take was three hundred and eighty dollars. Vonna made one hundred dollars. It shocked me to discover how many men found the idea of sex with a transsexual an erotic fantasy. I had expected Vonna to get the lion's share of the trade, even though her function was more to protect me then to participate. In any event, partly because she wasn't as available as I was, and partly because the guys were asking for me, I made more money. It was flattering in a bizarre sort of way. Bizarre because they didn't want me as a woman, they wanted me because I was transsexual. Some men rationalized that they weren't betraying their wife. In their mind I wasn't ``a real woman.'' Others were sublimating latent homosexuality tendencies because they could be with a ``man,'' while preserving the illusion of being with a woman. However, they all used me in the manner a man uses a woman, never the other way around. I smiled all the way to the bank.
Over the next few weeks I provided for hundreds of men. My accommodations allowed for a leisurely experience, a pleasant rendezvous. Many of these men revealed personal secrets, fantasies and desires, that they had never told another living soul, not even their wives. It was a liberal education about the male libido. One, not entirely typical, example was Del Rey, a man who I later learned was head of the prostitution rackets in Phoenix. He came to visit frequently and often spent the entire afternoon. I recall the first day he appeared at my door. He was short and paunchy, had thin grey hair, and his eyes drooped, haggard appearing. As might be expected he was an experienced lover and I enjoyed him every bit as much as he enjoyed me. In gutter talk, he fucked my brains out. Out of hundreds of men, he was the only man I ever met who I would have willingly paid. A warm, sensuous man, he liked to be held and cuddled. I sometimes rubbed him with one of my silk nightgowns. With me he could expose a part of himself that he couldn't reveal in the brutal world where he made his money, a soft part that his peers would have found despicable. Curled in my arms he could snuggle and put away his tough guy act. When he was with me his eyes softened and the hard cruel look disappeared. It was satisfying to know that this powerful man could lay his weary head on my breast, feeling free to expose a vulnerable side of himself. Many men came to me for this special kind of treatment. Men needing to express feelings they had never felt comfortable expressing, not with their wives, not even with other prostitutes. I was unique and because I was unique the men that came to me could open up in ways they had never dreamed possible. With me they could talk about their fantasies; after all, I was an erotic chimera, unreal, a thing of fantasy. My heart went out to these men. Maybe I wasn't their wife, but I was considerably more than a hooker and I cared! Were their needs and feelings fantasies? Or were they real? Was it a facade or reality when they came to me? To many questions, so few answers. I knew some of them needed me and not just for sex. They spent much of our time together just talking. I liked that. Long before anyone knew about female brains in male bodies I wanted someone to love the woman, that glorious woman I believed myself to be. Not able to get anything approaching that, I let men stick their cocks in various parts of my anatomy. For a moment, that brief moment, I would feel a little more like a woman. Illusion, self deception, fantasy, fabrication, perhaps. Some of the men I went out with, too many of them, were just getting their rocks off; a sheep's ass would have served as well. But a few men, a precious few, needed something more from me, something deeper and essentially more feminine than just teats and ass. After a few weeks, I became disillusioned with hooking. Not because of the sweethearts, but because of the sons-of-bitches; the guys that wanted quick and dirty sex. They'd stick their dicks up my ass, throw twenty on the table, and then they were gone. The pleasant ones almost, but not quite, made up for the assholes. With the good, the bad, and the ugly, the good was overwhelmed. I decided to retire, to hang up my toothbrush and my douche bottle. Vonna had been having the same reservations and had reached the same conclusion. It was time for both of us to quit. A hooker must either be tough, or get tough. Something neither Vonna nor I were willing to do. I let Mary know I wanted to quit. Surprisingly, she demanded I continue a little while longer. There were some bills that needed paid and she wanted the extra money. Reluctantly, I agreed, what was a few more days? After all, she had been good enough to go along with my experimentation, the least I could do was let her decide when it should end. What had it been all about? Had I been searching for my identity, a woman's identity, in a world that forbade me to have a woman's identity? Or was I indulging some perverse fantasy of my own? I knew what I believed, but who of us knows for sure what's in the dark recesses of our minds? Still, the usual role models, guidance, and paths to womanhood were closed to me. I had to search out and explore my emotions in any way that was available. Hooking taught me a lot about being a woman and something about men as well. I began to understand that the gender roles in our society are hard on everyone, not just transsexuals, not just women, and not just men.
Hormones; estrogen, Premarin, progesterone, Provera. Could they help me? Transsexuals took such things in preparation for life as a woman. How powerful were they? What changes could they effect? I was transsexual, but I doubted if I could ever afford sex reconstruction surgery, and if I could afford it, I wondered whether my cardiac problems would cause me difficulty. However, just being on hormones might alleviate much of my distress. My God, I could grow my own breasts. The thought brought tears to my eyes. Seeking out an understanding doctor, one I heard about through my grapevine of friends, I made an appointment. I kept the appointment dressed as a woman and informed the doctor that I was living exclusively as a woman. With small exceptions this was the truth. His prescription was 2.5 Premarin daily, 5.0 provera daily, and a weekly oil based shot of estrogen with B12. My first injection sent an electric thrill of well-being through me. It was a tingly sensation down my spine and out to my fingertips. Perhaps it was all in my mind, but I felt more relaxed than I had ever felt in my life. I loved the sensation, but taking female hormones was one secret I had to keep from Mary, at least for a little while. Shortly after I started taking female hormones, Mary came down with infectious hepatitis. She had caught it from someone at Motorola. How whimsical of fate. I screw around for weeks, hundreds of guys, and I don't even catch a cold. Poor Mary, she doesn't do anything with anyone and comes down with infectious hepatitis. Life just isn't fair. Our family doctor informed us that Mary would be sick a long time, three months or more. She might even die. My parents, my brother and his family, all my kids and myself, anyone exposed to Mary, had to take gamma globulin shots, although the doctor warned that they weren't always effective. For weeks Mary lay in bed alternating between fever and chills, often delirious. She had to be kept warm. I cranked up the thermostat, turning the house into a sweat box. The boys and I shed our clothes and still the sweat poured off our bodies. Despite the heat Mary still had chills. Sometimes I'd crawl in bed beside her, warming her with my body. When she had a fever I made her milkshakes and other cool drinks. The better part of two months passed before she began to show signs of improvement. During that time I only left the house long enough to buy groceries and then I rushed home after making my purchases. Mary remembers the time differently. She doesn't remember me being there for her, or taking care of her. Perhaps it was the delirium that made her feel alone and deserted. I can understand that. But she wasn't delirious all the time and, although I didn't expect slobbering gratitude, I hadn't expected reproach. Often, with Mary, the harder I tried to please her, the less she acknowledged it. Shortly after Mary recovered she and I had a discussion about my transsexuality. My internal conflicts were boiling. Was I a man? Was I a woman? There were times when the anguish seemed unbearable. Mary, for her part, never denied she would have preferred me as a man. The woman in me was something she tried to tolerate, but she would have preferred wasn't there. ``Maybe,'' I thought, ``Everyone is right. If I try just a little harder, maybe I can change. Maybe I haven't tried hard enough.'' For Mary's sake, I decided to try one more time to put away what to me seemed the most important part of myself. This time, there was only one thing I could think of that I hadn't tried before. I had never tried to be a feminine man; flamboyant, exhibitionistic, flaunting. When my Grandmother Naomi, nearly eighty five at the time, was told I was transsexual her response was, ``Oh that's just Skip, he always was creative.'' ``Maybe, this thing is just creativity,'' I thought. ``Maybe, if I wear creative outfits I could learn to live as a man. By God, whatever I did would be more acceptable than the way things were.'' Mary was exuberant. If it worked she'd have her Larry. A strange, eccentric, peculiar Larry, but, at least, a man. I was thirty seven, going on a hundred and two, and still hadn't found a comfortable niche in life. Shopping at Goodwill I purchased a black shirt, red pants, a red silk neck scarf to act as a dickey, and shiny plastic black shoes. With that outfit, I carried a black cane with a white pearl handle and wore pearl earrings. My purse had a long strap and was shiny black to match my shoes. Slicking my hair back with hair wax was the final touch. Sun bleached blond and slicked back my hair looked bizarre, a striated almost bald appearance. Imagine a cross between Quentin Crisp, the effete of the effete, in a huge powerful body standing tall, eyelids hanging half mask and angry like Robert Mitchum, and you have some idea of the mixed message I was radiating. It was a little reminiscent of the old joke, ``Where does a 250 pound duck sleep?'' Answer: ``Anywhere it wants.'' In truth, I felt vulnerable in that outfit and the only way I could deal with it was to put on a facial grimace, a swagger in my walk, and defiance in every line of my body. My message was, ``YES, I'm a faggot, and I'm one mean son-of-a-bitch.'' If you have can imagine John Wayne as a dandy, you've got the idea. On the second day of my new look, Neal, a homosexual transvestite and psychology major at A.S.U., came to visit and was duly impressed. He had been afraid to go out in public wearing an earring, let alone in an outfit like mine. He asked me to help him develop self-confidence. I wasn't sure what I could teach anyone about self-confidence, but I could teach him my survival techniques. His first lesson wasn't long in coming. I had to make a trip to the 1st National Bank that afternoon and I invited Neal to join me. At the bank, in the line ahead of us, were a couple of large burly dudes. Their eyes narrowed when they saw me. Hunching up their shoulders they turned away, stiffly attempting to ignore me. I winked at Neal and whispered, ``Follow my lead.'' In a normal voice, not the least swishy, readily overheard by the guys in line ahead of us, I spoke to Neal, ``Wanna go back to JD's tonight?'' JD's was a local cowboy bar. Gay males were about as welcome as Madalyn Murray O'hair at a church social. Neal, slightly confused, played along, ``Yeah, I guess we could.'' ``Sure,'' I said, ``kicking ass is sweet revenge.'' Neal's eyes grew large as he realized the direction I was leading the conversation. Flashing a nervous look at the hunched backs of the two men, their bodies tense and rigid, he looked back at me as if to say, ``Do you know what you're doing?'' I went on. ``The best part is they can't call the cops. What are they gonna tell 'em, a couple of fags beat 'em up?'' Then, I laughed. One of the men looked around at me, glaring, and I looked straight in his eye, a sadistic half-smile, half-smirk on my face, an open challenge. Dropping his eyes he turned around in line and didn't look back again. The conversation continued in this vein until the rednecks reached the cashier, did their business, and took their leave. When I was through with my business, Neal and I walked out the door. Neal was chortling. ``I thought that one guy was gonna kill you,'' he chuckled. ``Naw,'' I assured him,'' he was afraid. A long time ago I learned that if you don't show fear, other people are afraid of you.'' ``That's all there is to it?'' he asked. ``Far as I know,'' I replied. ``It's what gets me by. Of course, you have to control your own fear. Shit, when the dude turned around and glared at me I was ready to piss down my leg. Instead, I just glared back, bluffing him, just like a poker game. He had more to lose, so he folded.''
Later in the week, wearing the same outfit, I felt a rising uneasiness. This wasn't working for me, not at all. I wasn't Quentin Crisp. I wasn't Robert Mitchum. I wasn't a flamboyant gay male, and I wasn't a man. This shoestring identity was the farthest I had ever gotten from satisfying my emotional needs. What was I going to do? I had promised Mary I'd try to make this thing work, promised I'd try to be a man for her. It had only been four days; four days that seemed like an eternity. I knew she would say I was giving up too easy, but it couldn't be helped, I was going stark raving mad. At supper time, sitting at the table sharing a meat loaf, tears spontaneously erupted from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. Screaming at my family to leave me alone, I rushed into my room and locked the door behind me. I had never locked my door on my family. I had never needed to be alone. Now, I had to have time to think through what I was going through. Hours went by laying on the bed tossing, turning, squirming, crying, sobbing, cursing, pounding my fists into the pillow, and banging my head against the wall. Why? Was I insane? Why did I feel the way I felt? Why couldn't I control myself? What in hell was I going to do? The pain ripping at the fabric of my brain was a physical thing, a headache of immense proportions. It was hard to believe that emotional anguish could cause such intense physical pain. Through the night I slept fitfully, but mostly I was awake. Once Mary rapped on the door asking if everything was all right, but otherwise she left me alone. In her mind her Larry was battling a demon, the demon Darlene that possessed him, and she believed that Larry would vanquish the demon for her. Unfortunately for her, we demons are made of sterner stuff. Looking back objectively, I had been foolish to try again, I knew better. Nevertheless, desperately wanting to fit in, to be liked, to please everyone, I had little choice. I wanted to be liked so damn much I kept denying myself, denying what my heart and mind were telling me. ``If I tried a little harder, found just the right combination, thought just the right thoughts, maybe I could be a man, be this thing that was impossible for me to be.'' For over twenty four hours I stayed in my room. I didn't eat, drink, shit, or take a piss. When I emerged I was wearing my prettiest dress, my best wig, and I carried a brown paper bag filled with my flamboyant gay male clothing. Setting the bag down by the front door, I went over to Mary who was eating breakfast in the kitchen. ``I tried Mary. I can't do it. I'm taking the clothes to Goodwill today, maybe some one else can use them.'' There was no sense mincing words. ``You didn't try. You didn't give it a chance,'' she snarled, openly aggravated by my admission of defeat. As I looked at her, a tiny unseen tear crept into the corner of my eye. I blinked it away. She was a woman and she wanted a man. What she wanted, I couldn't give her. How could I blame her for being upset? My heart went out to her. I made no reply. There was nothing I could say that would help her. After dropping off the bag of clothes at Goodwill I returned home. Mary was in her room watching television, the bed littered with horror books and magazines. It was clear I wasn't welcome there.
Integration came to me at thirty eight years of age, if integration is the proper word. Integration, for me, was the resolution of the conflict between societal pressure and internal mandate, and it came upon me as an epiphany that put the world in perspective. It was the precise moment when I reached my maturity, my adulthood, the recognition of my womanhood. No longer would I be driven to outlandish behavior seeking my identity, no longer driven to sexual adventure hoping to validate my womanhood, and never again would I attempt to be a man. It no longer mattered what I wore, or even what people called me. Within myself I knew what I was and that was all that was necessary. To discover myself, I had climbed the fragile latticework holding the fabric of society together. I had explored the extreme boundaries of what it means to be a man and a woman. I'm not proud of some of the things I did, but neither am I ashamed. I did what had to be done. At thirty eight years of age, it all came crashing together. Not through another bizarre experience or some idiosyncratic escapade, but simply on a stroll along a canal one bright sunny day on the east side of Phoenix, while I was brooding over an article on transsexuals in Psychology Today. One sentence in particular was giving me food for thought. Something to the effect, ``Transsexuals are people who have a neurotic fixation on the opposite sex, rejecting everything to do with their biological sex.'' It wasn't a very compassionate portrayal of transsexuality, nor was it very accurate. Personally, I had accepted and used all the talents that came with my male anatomy, and I certainly knew I wasn't the most attractive woman in the world, not even the most attractive transsexual woman. Besides, when someone is neurotically fixated with something they don't ordinarily put as much effort into trying to get rid of it as I had! The epiphany dawned like the sun bursting forth from a stormy sky, clear, concise, exquisite in its clarity. I started laughing. ``My God, My God, My God,'' I called out in a loud voice, laughing and laughing. I wasn't crazy after all. At least no crazier than anyone else. I might even be a little saner than most. It was fantastic. A great burden lifted from me as the obvious truth exploded in my mind. With just a little twist, that sentence in Psychology Today, had described the problems not only of transsexuals, but of everyone in society. ``Men and women are people who have a neurotic fixation on their biological bodies, rejecting everything to do with the opposite sex.'' Everyone develops into a man or a woman in the same way. Everyone has the same neurotic fixation. Society only recognizes it as a neurotic fixation when it runs counter to the socially accepted neurosis. Everyone is nutso, every damn man, woman, Jack and Jill of us. I had been in the process of becoming a woman most of my life. Now I recognized I was a woman and had the same rights to my womanhood as any other woman. Those characteristics that made up a woman were my natural characteristics. As a man, in this gender crazy society, I had been denied those characteristics. It had never been my masculine traits I had been trying to deny, it had been my feminine characteristics. Having been born with a male body, I wasn't supposed to have those feelings. All the other inmates in the asylum told me so, all the crazy little Napoleons and Mothers of God. I had been crazy all right, crazy to listen to them. What is a woman and a man? Now, I knew. I enjoy taking care of babies, raising children, being domestic, being a little dominated in my life and a lot dominated in the bedroom. I enjoy clothes, make up, looking feminine, being sexy, getting wolf whistles, lovers drooling over me, and I love gossiping too. God, how I love gossiping with other women. I love the company of other women. Their fights are my fights, their conflicts are my conflicts, their needs are my needs, their concerns are my concerns. I feel comfortable in the company of other women; there is a similarity of thought process that I share with those capable of seeing beyond the flesh, a thought process that can't be duplicated by a man. Do those things make me a woman? Yes, for me they do. True, there are some men, a precious few, who are still men and have similar feelings, and there are some women who feel little of those things and they are still women. What then makes a person a woman or a man? Our view of ourself. I was a woman because I recognized myself as a woman. Finally, I had stopped denying it. How sweet it was, after all the painful years, I finally had an answer. Sitting down beside the canal I cried for joy. Little did I know my journey was not yet done.
|