I’m familiar with many of the faces,
but some are new to me, and some
interest me for whatever reasons.
There’s a butch girl who can’t be
more than twelve. Surely she’s not
homeless, right? Surely she has family
somewhere who cares? I asterisk
a mental note to ask Charlie about her.
Ditto the girl, maybe a year younger
than me, coming through the door now.
She’s pretty enough to model, except
she looks so scared. Not sure there’s
a market for that. Oh, but wait. What is it
about her? She’s lanky, and wearing heels
that make her even taller. Is that why her gait
is awkward? I nudge Charlie. “Who’s that?”
Pippa. Born Philip. You should talk
to her. She could use a friend like you.
Born Philip
That explains a lot. But transitioning,
or just cross-dressing? Only one way
to find out, at least if she feels like
sharing the information with me.
Once dinner is on the table, I make
sure to take the seat next to Pippa.
It isn’t hard. No one else has chosen
it. “Hi. I’m Seth. Mind if I sit?”
She looks at me nervously, with dark
eyes enhanced with expert makeup.
Uh . . . No. I mean, I guess so. If you
want to. Her gentle voice is more
male than female, but it belongs
to a boy, not a man. “I’d like to . . . ?”
She understands the implied question.
Philippa, but you can call me Pippa.
She passes a big bowl of cranberry
sauce, skips it herself. You work here?
“Volunteer,” I correct. “I haven’t seen
you here before. Are you new to Vegas?”
Not really, but kind of new to YouCenter.
I ran into Charlie downtown. She told me
about it. It’s nice to be around people
who don’t think you’re a freak, you know?
“I do know. So, where you from?
I mean, if you want to tell me. Oh,
and please pass the gravy.” I notice
she skips it. “What? Don’t like gravy?”
Love it. But I’m watching my weight.
I’m from Provo, which explains why
I’m in Vegas. Other than Salt Lake City,
which is more open-minded than most
people realize, Utah isn’t exactly trans-
friendly. Las Vegas was a cheap ticket.
We take a few minutes to stuff food
into our mouths. “Man, Charlie, you can
cook for me anytime!” Everyone nods
and murmurs agreement, and Charlie
beams. You ain’t seen nothing yet,
she replies. Wait till you taste the pie.
Pippa Skips the Pie, Too
But seems content enough watching
me devour pumpkin cheesecake.
Afterward, everyone helps clear
the tables, and a few step forward to
wash the dishes. Pippa and I grab cups
of coffee and wander outside to sit
on a bench haloed by the duskish light.
“The days are short. Almost December.”
I hear they’ve already had snow
in Utah. It definitely fell early.
“I used to like the snow, but we only got
four or five inches a year in Perry County.
Sure did get cold, though. Not like here,
where they think fifty degrees is cool.
So, anyone missing you in Provo? Do
your parents know where you are?”
Incredulity spikes her laugh. They
couldn’t give two fucks about where
I am. They stopped worrying about
me years ago, when I wouldn’t quit
insisting God put me in the wrong
body. My mother says God doesn’t make
mistakes, but I identified at three. All
I wanted was to play with my sister’s
Barbies. All my father wanted was to
beat the girl out of me. Couldn’t do it.
Different fathers. Different states. Different
religions, I’m guessing. Similar attitudes.
“My dad didn’t beat me when I came
out, but he completely disowned me.
I can’t imagine what he might have
done if I’d told him I was a girl in
a boy’s body. Gender dysphoria is not
in his vocabulary. Are you transitioning?”
Pippa nods. Started hormones, and
I’ve done a few rounds of electrolysis,
but that’s so expensive. I want to go
all the way at some point, though.
A girl doesn’t need a penis. In fact,
it’s counterintuitive to who I’m becoming.
“Do you have a safe place to live?
How are you supporting yourself?”
Let alone affording estrogen
supplements and facial hair removal.
I have a little studio, yes. Not much,
but it’s cozy and clean enough. As for
how I pay my bills, you can probably
guess. No back alley blowjobs, not
anymore. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve
no other way to make that kind of money,
and I’m saving up for procedures.
Besides . . . She smiles. What better
excuse to shop for pretty clothes?
I’ll quit someday, once I’ve become
the woman I was meant to be. In
the meantime, I’m surviving. But mark
my words. Philippa Young will make
something special of herself one day.
“I believe you. Until then, never
apologize for doing what you have to.”
I Don’t Mention
My personal connection to “doing
what you have to do,” but I do offer
Pippa my friendship. “Anytime you
need to talk, you can call me, okay?
Be really careful out there. This city
is crawling with creeps, and some
of them are dangerous.” I take time
to study her face really closely.
“You’re lucky. You have amazing
bone structure. You won’t need
surgery there. In fact, you could
model. Have you considered it?”
What girl hasn’t? Actually, I’d love to
find work dancing. The one real gift
my parents gave me was dance classes,
and my teachers told me I have talent.
“Believe it or not, I might have an in
for you. And not pole dancing, either.”
She smiles. I’d do that, too, except . . .
Yet another reason I don’t want a dick.
But I’d give my left nut for a chance
to dance. Nah. I’d give both of them.
Which cracks me up. “I can’t promise
anything, of course. But I do know
some people.” I don’t mention names,
nor my living arrangement. “I should
go. You’ve got my number.” I head
on inside to say goodbye to everyone,
then call for David’s driver to pick
me up around the corner. No one here
knows where I live, or with whom.
Once we’re on our way home—scratch
that, back to David’s house—I call
Micah, careful not to say too much
within earshot of Percy. “Hey. Hope
you’ve had a great Thanksgiving.
Would lo
ve to hear from you. Please
call me later.” Way to be ambiguous
when what I really want to be is in
his face, followed by him in mine.
And what I wish is I was on my way
back to a home Micah and I share.
Home
I check the time. Six p.m. here in the Pacific
zone, two hours later in Indiana. Dad will
probably still be awake. Hands shaking,
I dial the number I committed to memory
years ago. One ring. Two. Three. On four,
a machine answers. Can’t answer the phone
right now. Please leave a message. Dad’s
voice. Strong. Clear. Loved. Now, the beep.
“Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving. Hope you
spent it with Aunt Kate or someone. Sure
do miss you. How did the harvest go?
So you know, I’m thinking about going
back to school. Maybe getting a degree
in culinary arts. Las Vegas is in dire need
of decent venison sausage. Love you.” Huh.
Aunt Kate. Dad’s sister. Haven’t thought
about her in a while, but she always was
decent. Kind. Wonder if she’d talk to me.
As we pull into the driveway, I make a
note to track down a way to reconnect.
A Poem by Renée Lang
Reconnection
How do you glue
back together
a relationship torn into
scraps like paper?
Where do you find
trust
buried in a stinking heap
of epic past failure?
Losing a child
to illness or accident
is
a bitter tonic to swallow,
but losing one
to personal indifference
would be too
hard
to reconcile, and I’ve come
much too close—
within the width
of an eyelash—
to
doing exactly that.
I’ve been given a second
chance with my Whitney.
But how do I
rebuild
her faith in me?
How do I prove my love?
Whitney
Free
From the confines of rehab, and
scared through and through
to be without overseers, unless
you count my family. Yeah,
and how did that work out
last time? Okay, they’re doing
a good job of pretending
to care about how I’m feeling.
Well, Mom and Dad are, anyway.
Kyra acts like I’m a dark cloud—
something to draw the blinds
against. She’s probably said
two dozen words to me over
the past two days, and those
she barked. Don’t talk
with your mouth full.
Get out of the bathroom.
Put some decent clothes on.
God, look at your arms.
How could you?
Except for that, nothing.
I’m glad she’s flying back
to Vassar on Sunday.
Long-distance silence
is preferable to
the in-your-face kind.
My Arms Are Tattooed
With long silver scars—damage
from shooting up over and over
in the same general location, once
I forgot to care about hiding it.
What did I know? Not like drug
programs teach you how not to inject,
when they’re warning you about
using at all. Not like I thought
I’d ignore that advice and go walking
with the Lady. She calls to me,
and I’m terrified. I’m weak.
I didn’t take that second oxy
back in rehab, not because I
tried to be strong, but because
I lost it somewhere, and figured
that must have been a sign.
It made me take a long look
at myself, and I hated the view.
Once a junkie, always a junkie,
that’s what I keep hearing.
But the dope doesn’t have to win.
And I can reclaim my body,
abused and broken as it might
be, I can take ownership of it.
Dana thought it was hers for
the price of two pills—pharms
that would slide me back into
the arms of the Lady. Instead,
I pulled away. That time.
It’s Weird
Being back in my room.
My room, but not like I left
it. Apparently, Mom thought
I needed a fresh start, so she had
it painted a pale lilac with purple-
and-crimson paisley borders.
It’s pretty enough, but not
something I’d choose. Given
free rein, I’d likely pick black,
to match my mood. It’s hard
to come home, be confronted
with rules, most of them meant
to keep me from making the same
mistakes that almost killed me.
I understand the need for them,
but they’re suffocating me, and
I’ve only been here a few days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
Talk about strange.
Mom did do the cooking,
and did ask for help from
my sister and me. Way back
when I was just a little kid
we worked in the kitchen together.
But it’s been years, and since
then holiday meals have either
been prepared by hired help
or, more often, eaten out.
So, the Turkey Was Dry
The dressing was bland.
And the rolls were underdone.
The best thing was the pies,
apple and pumpkin,
and they came in a box from
our favorite bakery—
Dad’s contribution.
Hey, at least he was here,
not hiding out in San Francisco,
his Turkey Day habit
for the past couple of years.
He was even nice at dinner,
and managed the entire meal
with only two glasses of wine.
Mom needed three, but
stayed pleasant enough.
It’s like my parents decided
the only way to save me
was to save themselves.
Not that I’m at all sure
it’s possible for their marriage
to be resurrected. It was dead
and buried before I left.
Sobering thought.
Maybe that’s how
they should’ve left
it. If it all nose-dives
again, will that be on me?
Today Is Black Friday
A day when any sane person
stays holed up at home, or goes
to the gym to work off a few
calories. But not the Lang clan!
We’re going to the mall, and
calling it an adventure.
At least, that’s what Mom’s
calling it. Dad, who’s driving,
says, You realize this is insanity?
Look at this parking lot. How
far are you ladies willing to walk?
Kyra (speaking to the family
in general, not to me specifically)
claims, This is a total nightmare.
I bet Coach is already sold out.
Me? I’m just going along
for the ride, and because
r /> they’re scared to leave me
alone in the house, not
that I blame them.
The stores opened early,
but none of us is the type
to rise before dawn so we
can stand in mega-lines,
just to fight the inevitable
crowd, which might actually
thin out later in the day.
We did skip breakfast
instead of working out
to make up for calories
consumed yesterday. Fueled
only by coffee, we hit the mall
a little after ten, including
a six-minute walk in from
the far edge of the parking lot.
Dad was right. This is insane.
The sheer number of people,
all in one place, threatens
to overwhelm me. It’s like Vegas
on steroids, only for all its nasty
underbelly, Sin City’s facade
is beautiful. Nothing particularly
attractive about Capitola Mall
even without all the jostling.
A guy walking by turns to stare
with eyes that don’t quite track
and suddenly I’m carried back
to another day here. I came with
Paige, and we went on a weirdo
watch—that’s what we called it—
and ran into one hot creeper
loitering outside the Gap, looking
for stupid girls like me to recruit
into his stable. Wonder how many
pimps are hanging out here today.
I Spot a Possible Few
As we push and shove
our way into the throng,
a determined Kyra carving
a path to Coach, I’m pulling
in air as if through a pillow.
“Mom,” I try, but it’s a weak
attempt, and she can’t hear it
above the clamor. “Mom!”
It’s Dad who falls back,
takes a long look at me.
What’s the matter? Now
he grabs my hand, and his
skin is hot and I can’t stand
the touch of a man—any man,
really, but especially not this Vegas
wolf, who rushes me and I feel his grasp
at my throat, and he’s telling
me that he doesn’t pay for sex
and now he’s cursing,
Fight, you goddamn whore!
Fight or I’ll kill you.
“Leave me alone!” I scream,
and even above the din,
people hear. People stare.
People think Dad is hurting
me. Dad. The realization
of what just occurred punches