Organization: Smut Lobby Keywords: mm teen trans X-Moderator-Review: 7: fascinating writing, but peculiar characterizations
Castro Street Story: Beyond The Cocoon
G. Landers 10/29/93
Chris first had sex at 14. Uncle Claude was a jovial, well-liked man no one suspected. He owned a carpet company and on occasion employed his nephews as helpers. One weekend he specifically asked for Chris. The comment was made, "Why would he want only Chris?" but nothing more was said. He picked Chris up the following Saturday morning. They laid carpet then went to a motel "to rest before the next job." Chris knew it was coming. He had long had his suspicions. The room was tacky and smelt of stale cigarette smoke. Uncle Claude was sweaty and nervous. He told Chris he wanted to shower. Chris said nothing. It wasn't he was frightened, far from it; he was, in fact, fascinated by his Uncle's transformation. It was like watching an event occur in nature-- a snake shedding skin, two dogs stuck together as the male's penis deflates. Chris wanted to know mystery of the thing. When Uncle Claude called from the bathroom he went in. The overweight man was naked and red-face with lust. He undid Chris' zipper and gasped at the size of his nephew's penis. Chris let him felate it and watched in awe when it splattered over the whimpering man's face.
In the middle of the school term a kid from New York City came to Ludlum High. The word went out he was "gay." Other "effeminate" kids were called "fags," "homos" but never "gay." Chris watched the kid from a distance. His clothes and mannerisms more radical than anything at Ludlum. He dressed in a daring, bi-sexual way Chris never would. One day, he wore a woman's scarf around his neck. Chris was certain the teachers would make him take it off, or worse, the students would ridicule him. Neither happened. No one appeared to notice although Chris knew everyone had. The kid had flaunted his homosexuality and gotten away with it.
"How long have you been gay, Chris?" the kid asked.
Chris hesitated. It was such a unnerving question to answer in the school cafeteria with so many thousands of ears everywhere.
"I don't know."
"When'd you come out the closet?"
"`Out the closet'?"
"Yes. Your first time?"
"Two years ago."
"Did you like it?"
"I didn't like him. It was my uncle. It was wrong."
"But did you like it?"
"I hate to say `yes' because I know it was wrong."
"Ok, it was wrong-- now, did you like it?"
Chris thought back to day in the hotel room. He remembered how his body had jerked and spattered.
"Yes, my body liked it, I guess."
"Of course you did. You're woman. It's only natural."
"Natural...?"
"Sure, you're like me-- woman in a man's body. There's a lot of girl's like us in New York City. All the gays are coming out the closet in New York and half of them are younger than we are."
The kid told Chris about his own first time. It had been with his cousin. His parents had gone away for the weekend. The kid had wasted little time in seducing the older boy. They screwed like rabbits-- on the couch, on the floor, in the kitchen sink. In time the cousin became crazy in love with him; begged him to marry him, crazy shit like that. The kid swore he didn't know what had happened to the cousin. No one knew what to believe. They had the cousin committed to a mental institution. That's when the kid realized he was a girl in a boy's body. Everything fell in place after this.
"You've got to get to New York, Chris. You don't belong in a place like Ludlum, Kentucky. No real woman does...."
The kid was murdered a year after arriving at Ludlum. His mutilated body was found in a cheap hotel room. Chris was violently ill at the funeral. He could not return to school. He dropped out and got a job. Everyone understood when he boarded a Greyhound bus for New York City a few months later. He had just turned 17.
Before the bus entered the Port Authority Bus Terminal, Chris went to the restroom and lightly combed his hair. It hadn't needed more than this. The modified page-boy cut was almost maintenance free, but than his hair had always been easy, blond and easy. No one had ever faulted him on his hair-- on his slender thin-boned body, his delicate almost girl-like features, his distinct feminine nature, but never his hair. God had been more than generous in this department. And if the Port Authority Bus Terminal was representative of New York, his hair would stand out as it never had in Ludlum. So many black, brown, and yellow people and all of them charging across the terminal like there was a fire somewhere...Well, most of them, anyway... A tall, hawk-like black guy hovered from one corner of the terminal to the other; a big fat lady dressed in rags sat against the wall immobile as a beached whale; a security guard (or was it a police officer?) strutted here and there like a cock on the walk. Chris reached into his shoulder bag and withdrew a pack of Merit Lights. He had finally made it to New York. Ludlum Kentucky was now a million miles away. He slid his hand over his pant pocket as he had throughout the long bus ride from Ludlum. The great lump was still there, all $947 of it; more money than he had ever had before.
"Got another smoke?"
Chris turned. It was the tall, hawk-like black guy.
"Sure," Chris said, extending the pack of Merits, "If you don't mind Merit Lights...?
"Hey," the black man said reaching for the pack, "the way I feel, I'd smoke dried shit if I had something to roll it in."
His fingers were long and black as was the rest of him-- long and black. His nose was an aristocratic thing not at all flat. His lips thick but well-formed. His eyes large and piercing. Chris felt himself shiver. They did not make men like him in Ludlum, Kentucky.
"Just get in?" he asked, examining Chris with piercing eyes.
"Sort of."
"Mind if I cop a squat?"
"No, it's ok."
The black guy took the seat next to him.
"Going to school or just hanging out?" he asked, exhaling a long column of smoke.
"Relocating," Chris replied.
"Oh...?"
"I'm from Ludlum, Kentucky."
"Where you bunking?"
"Probably in the East Village."
The security guard walked pass and gave the black guy a scowl.
"Are you from New York?" Chris asked.
"Nobody's from New York."
Chris laughed.
"I'm looking for a nice, inexpensive place to rent." Chris said. "Think I'll find one?"
The man turned and looked at Chris squarely.
"Let ya' bunk with me for a lot cheaper than any hotel," he said. "Got a two room suite right around the corner."
Chris was at once stunned by the man's offer. He felt the blood rushing to his face.
"I could never do that," he said, looking away from the black man's eyes. "I don't even --"
"-- Why not take look at the place first, then decide...?"
"You don't understand. I could never --"
"--Man, stop being such a square. Everything's on the up and up. All black people ain't gangsters and thugs, you know."
"That's not what I meant...!"
There was more talk, then they agreed on something and walked out of the terminal. The security guard gave the black guy a fearsome scowl. In time, Chris would come to believe this scowl wasn't nearly as menacing as it should have been.
Outside it was all New York. Everything he had expected to see. It was 6:00 pm. People were charging about as thick and hurried as in the terminal.
"It's up this way," the black guy said, nodding with his long chin. "By the way, my name is Johnny....Johnny Pounds. What'd you say your's was again?"
"Chris Bartholomew..."
"Put it there, Chris," he said, sticking his long arm towards Chris as they walked. "I gotta feelin' this is going to be the beginning of a very nice arrangement."
Chris began to feel the first pangs of worry. This was nuts. Idiot tourists like himself disappear and are never heard of again after getting talked into situations just like this.
"Listen, Chris. Here's the deal," Johnny Pounds said suddenly turning towards Chris. "You can stay at my place as long as you like. I'm only gonna charge you 20 bucks a night-- what do you say?"
"Huh?"
"20 bucks a night. Can you afford that?"
"I can afford it."
He was alternately looking over Chris's head, then to the left and right of his head, then directly in Chris eyes.
"Ok, you can pay me now...sompthin' I need to pick up before we go upstairs."
Chris reached to his pocket but stopped before pulling the money out.
"Look," Johnny Pounds said, reading Chris' mind. "Here's the key to my place. Apartment 103. Let yourself in. Get comfortable. You can take a shower if you like, whatever. I won't be but a second. It's the building right in back of you, man."
He was holding the key low at his hip so only the two of them could see it.
I trust you, Johnny," Chris lied.
"Here," Johnny said reaching to Chris's shirt pocket and letting the key drop in. "Now the twenty if you still wanna go through with the arrangement."
Chris pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to him.
"Now go ahead and freshen up," Johnny said taking the twenty. "I'll be home in two shakes of a rabbit's tail."
The key actually tuned the lock. The door actually opened. A beautiful Persian cat padded over and curled around his leg. He flipped on the light switch. The floor was carpeted with a commercial type carpet and the furniture looked second hand but the place wasn't a dump. Things were kept up. Jazz music was piping in from somewhere. K-Mart type framed pictures on the wall...a black woman with a large afro and spear; a print of child with dark, lemon-sized eyes, a montage of John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. Clean white curtains. A bowl of candy kisses on the coffee table. A good smell here, too. Room deodorizer somewhere. Not Buckingham Palace, but the place was ok.
"Meow!"
And how interesting that a man like this Johnny Pounds owned such a beautiful cat...So well-fed and trusting... Maybe he eats them...
Chris walked deeper into the room. There was a framed photo on the small table at the end of the crushed velvet couch. He picked it up. It was a nightclub photo of Johnny Pounds sitting in a wicker chair with a blonde on his lap. Chris put the photo down. He walked out of the living room and entered the kitchen. There was a large black frying pan and pot on the range, both covered. He lifted the top off the frying pan. A T-bone steak in thick gravy. The pot on the back burner would be white rice, he guessed. He lifted the top. Perfectly cooked white rice. He was suddenly hungry. He thought about what his host had said, "Relax and freshen up, man--" --Did that mean eat, man?
"Meow!"
He walked from the kitchen pass the bathroom and peeked in the bedroom. One bed. Queen size. So this is where Johnny Pounds, pounds... Stay out of here, girlfriend... He turned and walked to the bathroom. Narrow, like the kitchen. An old-fashion bathtub with a shower connected to it; cheap, plastic shower curtains. And even towels, white towels with, "The Roosevelt Hotel" emblazoned at the bottom in blue. Now where ever did he buy these...?
"Meow!"
He went to the living room, got his shoulder bag, and returned to the bathroom. The latch on the bathroom door was unhinged. No way to lock the bathroom door... Chris shrugged and began undressing. The shower would be good and in his shoulder bag were a fresh pair of underwear and socks. He left his shoes and shirt on the floor but placed his jeans at the end of the tub where he could see them. He bent and turned the faucet on, adjusted the water, turned the shower knobs to full blast, then stepped into the tub drawing the curtain around him. The water came down hot and hard.
He felt Johnny's presence. Even the spray of the shower and opaqueness of the shower curtain, could not conceal it.
"Nothing like a good, hot shower, hey?" Johnny asked loud enough to cut through the sound of the water.
"Yes," Chris said his body now rock still.
"Got some clean nightclothes for you to wear so you don't mess up my satin sheets. Put 'em on when you finish your shower, you hear?"
"Yes, sir," Chris replied, instantly feeling incredibly stupid for having called Johnny "sir."
Johnny laughed and walked out of the bathroom. Chris' breathing returned to normal. Always he had gone to great lengths to avoid being nude when around other boys. In school it was he who was always the last out of the locker room. And for good reason. His penis was too big. He'd have preferred a much smaller one; say, one the size of Uncle Clyde's, or better, none at all, or better still, a vagina. Why couldn't he at least been born a hermaphrodite...? Would that have been asking too much, damnit...?
He rinsed himself and stepped out of the tub. His brain flooded with hot blood the instant he saw it. It could have been a ghost so startled was he by it. Pink and lacy made with little more material than a bikini-- a baby doll nightie! Johnny had left it over the shoulder bag!. Red-hot shame. Rage. Fear. His legs were weak. He needed to sit. Still wet he went to the commode and sat on it. He wanted to cry but his tear ducts said, no, not yet. Now, all at once, he suddenly wished he was not "gay." Please God not like this. Gawd! How had he gotten himself in a corner like this? Why hadn't he seen what this black bastard was after?
And he would be in there waiting; waiting for me to come out wearing this pink nightie... Bastard! Why couldn't these bastards just ask for what they wanted? Why did they always have to humiliate you first? I know I'm gay but that doesn't mean I'm retarded....Dirty, sneaky black bastard...You get nothing for being such a low-life -- nothing!
Chris slipped on his jeans and put on his shoes and shirt. He reached for his shoulder bag then cursed that in his haste he hadn't put on the clean underwear. He took the shoes back off and sipped out of the jeans.
"I can heat up some steak I got here, if you're hungry," Johnny called from the kitchen.
"No!" Chris hollered.
Nude again he picked up the nightie to get to his bag and stopped. The softness of the material was comforting. It was frilly, and gentle, and all the things he wanted from life but had never had. Under different circumstances he'd have stolen time to secretly wear something like it. He cursed and threw it across the room.
"Fuck this shit! My first night in New York and here I go again!"
"You say something, Chris?" Johnny called from the kitchen.
There were tears in his eyes, now; fat tears streaming down his pale cheeks. Nothing mattered. He could not escape it. He was born to miserable. Born to be every perverts plaything. God was twisted and cruel and watching from above laughing like crazy. Why fight it? He had been born a faggot and would die one no matter how hard he fought. Still naked, he walked to the kitchen and stood at the entrance his fists balled at his side.
"Let's stop playing games, Johnny" he said still unable to stop the tears from streaming down his face. "If you want it, come and get it, nigger!"
Johnny Pounds turned from the frying pan his eyes wide with surprise.
"My, my, my," the black man said, his voice suddenly thick and electric, "Now ain't we a sight.... Ain't we a sight, indeed...."
"Meow!"
He could not get out the bed. He looked at the heaving slab of blackness stretched next to him. They were both naked. The thin blanket was somewhere off the bed, probably in the sink or on the roof, it would not have surprised Chris. It had been savage. And, yes, it had hurt. And he had screamed at Johnny as had churned and churned him and taken him past pain to a point where his body became pleasure; hot, nasty pleasure that made him buck and whinny like a mare in heat as Johnny rode him. And Johnny had indeed rode him; rode him to a place he had not known existed; a place beyond the cocoon where all the mysteries were laid bare; where for the first time he saw the full truth of the woman he was. There would be doubt after this, no apologies, no turning back. No matter what they did to him he was woman and would live the rest of his life as one. The mindless, hungry lioness inside had finally been released and she was far stronger than the male body that had caged her. Far too strong now to ever hide again.
And it was morning-- no, early afternoon -- and he could not get out of bed. The compromise he made with himself was that he'd prepare breakfast and then leave. This would give him time to bolster his resolve; fight the urge to stay there forever. He got out of bed, put on one of Johnny's shirts, and went to the kitchen.
"Meow!"
Eggs and a kind of thick bacon. It came in a hunk. He found a frying pan, sliced the stuff, and began frying. It occurred to him he was making breakfast for the very man he had called a bastard only the night before. He laughed.
By the time the knock came on the door, he was done. Johnny was in a night gown peering through peep hole at once. The man he let in was black and fat and broke out with a wide grin when he saw Chris standing in the kitchen.
"Hi, Sunshine!" he called to Chris.
Johnny grunted and pointed the man to the bedroom.
Chris was speechless. The realization of the picture he cast in Johnny's big shirt, his blond hair in disarray, a spatula in one hand, a pot-holder in the other, immobilized him with embarrassment.
A few minutes later the sound of the man leaving and Johnny was in the kitchen grinning.
"My, my, ain't we a regular housewife," he said standing at the entrance of the kitchen so to take in the full view of Chris.
"Good morning...I thought you might be hungry..." Chris said not daring to look him in the eye.
Johnny laughed.
"Hmm...smells like my granny's kitchen in here," he said, "all except I don't see hide nor hair of no biscuits and grits.
Chris felt himself go red again. He did not know whether Johnny was making fun of him or what.
"My buddy, who just left," Johnny continued, "thought you where my ex-wife standing up there a potholder in one hand, a spatula in the other and all that pretty blond hair everywhere...ha, ha, ha..."
Chris took the coffee pot off the range and began filling one of the cups he had laid out on the table. This done, he put the coffee pot back on the stove sat down at the table before the plate he had fixed and said,
"I made scrambled and fried eggs cause I wasn't sure what you preferred. I Figured out how to cook your bacon and fried ten slices. There's warm buttered toast in the oven and you can see the coffee percolating in the pot. Now you can stand there and make fun of me if you want, Johnny, but excuse me, I'm hungry and I'm going to eat, and then when I'm finished, I'll be leaving here, and you better not try and stop me, you asshole."
Johnny laughed.
Few people gave Johnny Pounds any grief. He had once been a widely known light-heavy weight boxer and still visited the gym regularly despite his cigarette-smoking. And even in a gym full of other trained fighters, he stood out. Few moved and attacked the heavy bag with the raw power he did. Chris would sit in the small bleacher section mesmerized. There was something about watching a sleek, powerful man move his body the way Johnny could. First would come the shadow boxing. To shadow box was to dance-- shuffle and glide, dip and feint-- all in time to some inner rhythm. Less skilled fighters would stretch, throw round-house punches, lose their timing and be all over the place. Johnny moved like Fred Astaire-- always on the beat, now shuffling a step or two while shooting a jab, then sidestepping an imaginary punch and countering with a hook to the kidney. A slick fighter. The kind the older pugs like to call "sugar."
And after, when the sweat was wet over his muscles and his work-out over, he'd walk around the gym to cool down and this was when Chris would see how highly the other fighters regarded him. They'd pause from their ministrations to acknowledge him in the quick, quiet way street people had-- a nod, a mouthed "hey champ,' a fist raised slightly in the air. Johnny would nod back in the quiet dignity Chris had begun to find so captivating. A black dignity wholly unlike anything Chris had known growing up in Ludlum. Inscrutable, strong, capable of communicating all the things that meant strength and character no matter his weakness for young blondes.
And what the people who saw them together thought, was anybody's guess. Take a big, good-looking black man, pair him with anything that even remotely resembled a female, and it was all right. Nobody would get out of line. Chris had first noticed this walking from the terminal with Johnny. They could go anywhere, it didn't matter, and always it was as if Chris was invisible so commanding was Johnny's presence.
"Passing" was mostly hair and clothing according to the gay kid from New York. During one of Chris' first outings with Johnny he had worn his hair in a thick French braid. They were in line at Burger King and the counter girl had said, "Can I take your order, `Miss'?" Her mistake had made his day.
Then came the trip to South Carolina to attend the funeral of one of Johnny's relatives. Johnny told Chris, "If you're coming with me you need to get some dresses and stuff cause there'll be a lot of visiting going on."
His words had worried Chris. Going to Burger King as a female was one thing, maintaining the illusion over a sustained period of time was quite another. A million things could go wrong. One doesn't become a woman overnight no matter how feminine he might look. There were things that needed to be learned and perfected and learned perfected again, and again, before a "girl" went public. On the few occasions he had ventured into a ladies public restroom, for example, he'd been far too nervous to even use the toilet so fearful was he that the police would bust down the stall door and haul him to jail. Then there were the times he and Johnny would run into a friend accompanied by a female companion. Suddenly Chris would get tongue-tired if the female engaged in girl talk. So much to learn and so many little terrors along the way.
"Just get some nice things for yourself if your going with me-- you know, dresses, earrings, make-up, and shit. Fox yourself up, Chris. A lot of my people are going to be checking you out and I got a reputation for always being with nothing but sharp-looking womens...."
He still had most of his money. Johnny hadn't touched a dime other than the $20 that first night. He'd have to go shopping, of course. If it cost every penny he had, he'd have to spend it. For the first time in his life things he dreamed were unfolding. He'd have to see them through despite his terror. He was in too deep to turn back.
There was a girl in the building, a fair-skinned Puerto Rican girl Johnny called the "geek monster." She had been nice to Chris, had always called out, "Hello, Christy!" whenever they passed. How she knew his name, he hadn't a clue. He knew only he needed her help. The girl was a dresser despite what Johnny thought of her, a full-fledge fashion horse who even wore matching outfits when putting out the garbage. And she was about his size too-- an eight. That didn't hurt either.
"Delancey street, girl, that's where I'm taking you!" Ida said, her eyes lighting with excitement.
Chris had caught her in the hall.
"Delancey street?" Chris repeated.
"Yes, for sure, you'll see," Ida said grabbing Chris under the arm and walking him in the direction of her apartment.
"Come inside for a moment, honey, and we can talk," Ida continued. "You picked the right person, girlfriend. I know all the right places and all the Jewish guys love the fuck out of my Puerto Rican ass."
Chris met Ida the next morning dressed in tennis shoes, tight jeans, a bulky sweater and sunglasses. He had brushed his hair back tightly and affixed a dark blue handkerchief to hold the thick ponytail. He looked like a sweet college co-ed.
"Chris, honey," Ida bleated with excitement. "See, I'm here, just like I promised."
They hugged each other.
"Let's have some breakfast first, said Ida. "C'mon, my treat, girlfriend."
The place they stopped in was the kind of little restaurant Chris never would have gone to on his own. It was too ethnic. It had handwritten signs in Spanish taped to its steamy window: "Arroz e Frijoles $1.25" Platanos Verdes... Yuca con ajo...."
Ida began stirring things up no sooner then she stepped in the door:
"Mira, Miguel, rapido, jibaro," she called to the round man behind the counter. "Ahora, Yo tengo una gallega para su kiesta!" ("Hey, Miguel, move fast, you hick. I've got a white girl for your ass, now!")
Chris winced, then quickly said, "Buenos Dias, Miguel."
Ida jerked around to Chris, "Honey, you didn't tell me you speak Spanish."
"Just a little," Chris said.
Meanwhile Miguel was beaming at Chris happily. He clearly liked what he was looking at.
"You Spanish?" Ida wanted to know.
"No," Chris said. "Just picked it up in school."
"Whew," Ida said. "You almost had me worried for a minute."
He couldn't fathom what this was suppose to mean, if anything, but decided to leave it at that. This Ida girl was too wacky to try and follow each and every time.
"Anyway," Ida said, turning from him to the rotund man. "Some coffee, please. And two pieces of raisin cake."
She turned to Chris, "The cake's good, even if it is a little fatting, and plus, I'm treatin'."
"Ok, Mi Amor--" Miguel started.
"--Cut it, Romeo," Ida snapped turning back to the Boriquen with a frown. "We're in a hurry, Popi. We got important business to do today unlike certain chubby-wubby individuals I know, present company not excepted."
Miguel laughed and winked at Chris. Catching this, Ida groaned "Ooh, my Gawd..!" then reached for Chris' hand and went to the farthest table from the man.
"He's such a pig, Christy, really," Ida said once they were seated. "Married and has at least 25 kids, but let me tell you what else about him-- let him get a little feel and you can eat here ten times a day free of charge. How'd you like to have a husband who treats the girls like that?"
Ida continued her staccato rhetoric, then, when Miguel brought over their order, Chris watched as she rubbed her breasts against his arm even as she insulted him.
"Thank you. Now back to your cage, Igor, rapido, before you spoil our appetites."
Miguel was now red-faced and breathing heavy. He retreated to the counter leering like a fiend.
"Such a pig..."
When they finished and stood to go, Ida called out to him, "I'll see ya,' Miguel. Eh, do we owe you anything, honey?"
"No, no, no," Miguel called from the counter, a leer still on his face. "It's on me, Ida, to welcome your new friend."
"You sure?" Ida asked, now standing in the center of the aisle, her breasts and ass jutting out, a teasing arrogant look on her face.
"Yes, it's alright," the man wheezed. "My pleasure."
"Humph," Ida snorted. "C'mon Chris, let's leave this popcicle stand before I give him a nervous breakdown."
And then a final jab as they walked out the door: "And if you're lucky, jibaro, I might be back for lunch, and let you cop another feel, you dog."
Miguel's face lighted up like a Christmas tree. "Please do, please do," he gushed. "Mi casa es tu casa."
"That'll be the day."
Ida steered Chris in the direction of the subway. Her talk was still fast and informative: "The man is so weak. I would take all his money, but, you know, all the kids he has-- none of which he fathered, of course -- I don't want to take food out of their mouths, you see, so I just get freebies on the food. He loves it, honey. Can't you tell?"
Ida was about 5"8 with what would have been a ballerina's body weren't it for her rude little ass. Like many Puerto Ricans, she had a complexion Chris would come to think of as "sweet yellow." And her hair reflected her mixed heritage too. It was long and brown with just a hint of woolliness. A hot little tamale, this one, street-wise and sexy for days. So why then did Johnny call her a "geek monster?" And what exactly is a "geek monster," anyway?
The subway platform was crowded, yet everyone stood several feet away from the edge. Ida explained the reason for this:
"There's a mad pusher going around the City, Christy, so be careful. He got three girls already. One white, one black, one Chinese. This sick muddyfucker don't give a shit about race or anything. He's an equal opportunity pusher, honey. He sneaks up behind you and "Zoom!" the next thing you know they're putting your body parts in a lawn and leaf bag. Dios Mio! I hope I don't go like that, Christy. It's so tacky, you-know-what-I-mean?"
Their train arrived. They herded on board with the rest of the mob. All the seats were filled and no one looked anyone else in the eye. Everyone was in their quiet, little paranoid world, everyone except Ida who was still gabbing...
"Then you have to watch out for the 'goose artists,' too. They like to get a free goose when they think you're the type who won't say nothing. Them you got to scream at. You go, `Hey dirtbag, touch me one more time and I'm calling the cops!' That usually makes them back-the-fuck-up, girlfriend. You-know-what-I-mean, Christy?"
Once on Delancey street, Ida charted out their course:
"First, we go for footwear," she said, looking down the street intently, "then we work our way up-- sabe?"
Chris nodded. He had never seen anything like it. In front of them, extending for several blocks on both sides of the street, deep wooden carts filled with layers of clothing were stalled in front of tiny storefronts as far as the eye could see. Old fashion awnings rolled out over these storefronts and on the framework of the awnings more clothes hung. People milled everywhere. This was surely old New York, or at least, a part of old New York that hadn't died. And it was the first time Chris had ever seen an orthodox Jew.
"Forget about the Puerto Ricans," Ida said frowning at an Hispanic man at one of the stalls. "They're just window dressing. It's the Jews who make the deals here...Oh," she stopped suddenly, then, looking at Chris as if she had just seen a ghost, she blurted, "You're not Jewish, are you?"
Chris shook his head.
"Whew. You almost had me worried for a minute."
There was a vast selection of shoes and boots-- Italian, Spanish, domestic knock-offs-- that ran the gamut of style and price. Chris dropped $200 on two pair of boots and a pair of heels. The boots were sleek and no problem because they were clearly bi-sexual. The heels were bought on Ida's urging. As much as he wanted them, Chris could not muster the nerve to buy them on his own. Once Ida saw the sparkle in his eyes, however, she had been relentless.
"That's you, Christy! If you don't buy them I'll buy them for you...that's really you, girlfriend, I swear to God."
The merchant was perplexed: "They look beautiful on you, honey. So what's the problem? he asked."
"And they're really you, girlfriend. Can't you see!"
Thus, Chris concluded really had no choice but to buy them. Ida clearly had no intention of leaving the place unless he did.
"I'm glad you decided for yourself," she said as Chris paid the merchant. "Those heels are really you, Christy. I really mean it, seriously."
They continued down Delancey street. In many places the owners had hired Puerto Rican salesmen who sat on stools outside. The response when Ida and Chris passed such places was predictable....
"Que Linda!"
"Muy Sabrosa!"
"Hey, baby, I got what you need!"
"If you have it, I don't want it anymore," Ida would snap without losing a beat.
Another good thing about shopping with Ida was that she was so noncommittal about Chris' transvestitism. Not once did she by word or action suggest there was anything at all unusual about a man shopping for woman's clothing. In fact, it had not even been necessary for him to tell her what he needed, Ida knew. He was to discover that among Puerto Ricans and Blacks this was quite the thing. He'd meet mother's and fathers who'd openly refer to their transvestites sons as "she" this and "she". This was to later explain his closeness to the Black and Hispanic community. No other people, including gay whites, accepted what he was so uncritically.
Soon they were laden down with armfuls of stuff. He was exhausted. Keeping up with a ball of fire wasn't easy. The chica never slowed down.
"$30! The guy down the street is selling the same sundress for $20!
"So go to the guy down the street!"
"Drop dead, you crook!"
"Ok, lady, now please leave before I call the police."
"Call 'em, so I can tell 'em about that little peep-hole you got in the ladies dressing room.
"That's not true!" the bearded man bellowed as if stuck with a knife.
"Ok, then call the cops-- call 'em! I'll show em myself!"
"Here, take the dress for $20, but please, I don't want anymore of your business. I got a bad heart as is. Aggravation like this I don't need. So, here, you win, already. I'm an old man. I can't take you people anymore."
"Pay the man, Christy, and let's get out of this popcicle stand. This crook is breaking my heart, already, you-know-what-I-mean?"
For helping him, Chris bought Ida a pair of boots.
"No, no, Christy, you don't have to do this," Ida protested, her face a mixture of surprise and emotion. "Please, honey. You really don't have to do this, they cost too much."
Chris had the salesman throw in a pair of panty-hose as well. Ida's help had been worth the 75 bucks and more. She had helped him get ready for South Carolina; at least as ready as a 17 year old well-dressed transvestite could get.
The drove down in Johnny's 10 year old Chrysler Satellite. The big eight-cylinder rode the highway like a sleek cruiser on the open sea. The car got surprisingly good mileage, so Johnny let her rip at 75 most of the way down. And to cut travel time further, Chris fried two chickens and baked a pan of biscuits the night before. This, and a thermos of black coffee, would keep them on the road and out of Mcdonald's and the KFC's. They'd resupply near Lumberton if Johnny's schedule held true. The important thing was to knock off the main part of the trip while their energy level was high. This accomplished, they could grab a motel room, get some sleep, and finish the balance on the new day. Johnny had made the trip many times before. He knew how to do it right.
They were going to a place named "Dog Island." Dog Island was in the South Carolina "low country," an area that extended down the South Carolina coast to Savannah. The place was steeped in history, according to Johnny. All the way back to the days of slavery and rice plantations.
"You see, whites just couldn't handle the mosquitoes and wet heat of the swamps," Johnny begin to explain....
"So about 200 years ago they began bringing in nothing but African slaves from rice growing African countries. Now these niggahs quite naturally were accustomed to swamp and wet heat. These were the `Gola' people. Had been cultivating rice as far back as any one knew. The strongest, blackest, most malaria resistant people in all Africa. Tailor-made for the low country rice plantations. Crackers didn't want no other kind of African after they saw how well the Golas adapted. No Mindigo, no Watusi, no Fulani. Nothing but Gola, or "Gullah" as they called 'em. That's all they wanted. Rice niggahs from Africa so black their gums were jet blue."
Johnny paused to take a cigarette from the pack on the dash. Chris grabbed the Bic and lit it for him. Johnny took a deep drag then continued:
"Hacked out all the beautiful plantations they had back then, these Gullah people did. Hacked `em where before was nothing but swamp and mosquitoes. Back then, there was mile upon mile of rice plantation as far as the eye could see, with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of black Gullahs working the rice swamps like black ants covering a hill. Well, on a lot of the islands white folks just left Black overseers in charge of everything and went to Charleston or Beaufort till crop harvesting time. Slaves stayed pure black, funny-talking and African-like to this very day. That's why we're different from your average run-of-the-mill black peoples. The majority of us are still pure-bred Gullahs."
It was as if he wanted to tell Chris as much as he could about himself and Dog Island; prepare her for the things she was about to see.
"Lot of history in this low-country, Chris. Lot of my people's blood, too."
The food ran out near Lumberton. Chris decided he'd hold out till they reached "South of the Border" an amusement park just beyond the North Carolina border. They passed into South Carolina and took the first exit to the park. The crowd was a small, meandering one. Chris was more excited by the bright lights than apprehensive. He hooked his arm around Johnny's and together they strolled around the place like the most natural thing in the world. They ordered foot-long hot dogs, walked into a souvenir shop where Chris bought a glorious Southern Belle straw bonnet, and watched kids have a ball on the rides. No one seemed too upset. The cashiers smiled a lot and made a point of calling Johnny "sir," and Chris "m'am."
When they returned to the car they were in the highest of spirits. Years later Chris would remember this evening with special fondness. No matter how horrid things would end between him and Johnny never again would he meet a man he felt so comfortable with in public. It was presence of the man. A one in a million kind of style that said, "I may be black as ink. And a lot of you people may not like the fact that I'm here among you with a blonde on my arm, but I'm a man. And a man's got to do what he's got to do or he wouldn't be much of a man. And that's something that's bigger than me and you and damn sure bigger than this blonde that's holding on to me like he ain't never gonna let go."
Miles and miles of trees and thick foliage and little rust covered farmhouses and grassy hills and multi-colored bill-boards and signs announcing towns named "Shiloh," and "Yamasee," and it was ink-black outside, and the big Chrysler was doing over 75 mph, and the window was down, and the air whipping in pungent, low-country air, pregnant with flora and fauna and trillions of insects, and Chris was feeling lazy and horny just like a woman gets when her belly is full and she's alone with her man. He reached out and touched Johnny on the thigh.
"Let's get a motel room, honey, I'm sleepy."
The big car roared off the exit and followed the main road to a small motel. A few minutes they were on the floor grappling like collegiate wrestlers. Some time after this Chris lie awake entwined around his sleeping black man. He was like a slab of chiseled ebony, Chris thought. How would he ever wean himself off such a magnificent beast?
He thought about what he would wear in the morning: Hip, crazy Ida had surely been sent to him by God. What else explained such perfect timing? The sundress was hanging in the closet with the heels beneath them. Tomorrow he'd arrive on Dog Island wearing both. It would be the biggest day of his life and he was scared to death. Things were going too fast, but what was he to do? Like Johnny always said, the thing was bigger than them. God was moving it all along for reasons only He knew. It's just bigger than them... Bigger than them...Bigger than them....
Chris fell asleep.
"Wow!" Johnny exclaimed.
It was morning. Chris had just stepped out of the bathroom dressed in the sundress, heels, and straw bonnet.
"Do you really like it?" he asked, avoiding Johnny's eyes.
Johnny was standing in front of him now, naked and raw, his body answering Chris' question in the most tell-tale way possible.
"But Johnny, no, no, we don't have time for that now, Johnny...."
"Oh, baby, baby, you look so hot, baby...."
"But John--ny...."
Highway 17 snakes along the South Carolina coast down to Savannah, Georgia. Johnny and Chris had picked it up just below Charleston. From there it was a straight shot through the heart of low-land country to just beyond the Combahee river and Dog Island. The early morning sun had already begun to steam the lush marshland around the highway. The smell of brackish water-- seawater mixed with fresh water -- hung in the air. Off in the distance an egret flew beyond the tree line and vanished. Road kills in abundance. More ancient, rusted farmhouses. And then, lone black women at roadside stalls selling baskets.
"Let's stop if we see another one," Chris said his face wrinkled in a childlike curiosity.
"You can't afford what they're selling," Johnny replied stonefaced.
"Let's stop anyway."
Ten miles later another stall. Johnny slowed the Chrysler and pulled onto the service road. Chris put on his straw bonnet and stepped from the Chrysler looking for all the world like Scarlet O'hara stepping off the porch at Tara. He reached for Johnny's hand and felt it large and warm around his. The old black woman stopped her basket weaving and looked up. Such a sight required her utmost attention.
"Morning, maum," Johnny said in a thick Gullah accent.
"Aiyah, suh. N' e too Missus," the woman replied.
"Good morning, m'am," Chris said.
Johnny released Chris' hand and walked closer to the row of baskets hanging from the weathered wood of the stall. "E sweegras he growin' fine, enty?" he asked.
The woman smiled broadly revealing a block of pearly white teeth set in jet blue gums.
More conversation was had between the two, then she pulled one of the baskets from the wood and handed it to Johnny. Johnny smiled, thanked her, then reached for Chris's hand and began walking to the car. Chris followed not at all certain at what had just transpired.
"If we wanna make Dog Island 'fore dinner time, baby, we can't fool around," Johnny said.
"Don't you of all people talk about `fooling around' Mr. Johnny Pounds," Chris said.
Johnny grinned but said nothing.
"Johnny, that woman's gums where blue," Chris said after they had driven for a while in silence.
"Sure, she's a full blooded Gullah, and my kin besides."
"And..." Chris said, hesitating, then after a moment: "And she was the blackest person I've ever seen...."
"Shoot," Johnny said with a laugh. "By the time you get back from the Dog, you'll be callin' people her complexion `high yaller.'"
They continued down Highway 17. Chris began fingering the basket. It was a good basket, tightly woven and with a warm, earthy scent.
"Them ole women been making those things since they brought the first African slaves down here," Johnny said noticing him. "Whole lot stuff from Africa these folk down here are still up on."
"Like Voodoo?" Chris asked playfully.
Johnny winced, then, looking very serious replied, "No, that's New Orleans with that voodoo jive. Down here folks believed in `conjuring,' and that was around long before they came up with that voodoo shit."
Chris let out a carefree laugh. "Oh, I love it!" he said. "Now I know this is going to be a fun trip!"
Johnny looked down the highway without comment. This made Chris smile even more deliciously.
They continued down 17. Then after they had gone a distance Johnny said, "Our turn's coming up in about 100 yards."
Chris looked down the highway for some telltale sign but saw nothing. Johnny began to cut his speed...Then Chris saw it-- a wooden sign no bigger than a breadbox that read:
"Dog Island -----> "
The big Chrysler churned up billows of dust as it rolled onto the dirt road. Chris leaned forward to take it all in. There were no road lights or anything. The road was barely wide enough for two cars, and up front, in the distance, he could see what appeared to be a body of water and a small dock. Several small boats were tethered to its moors. And next to it a parking area with about 30 in it. Folks came, parked their cars and boated to Dog Island, that much was plain. `Dog Island' really was an island.
Johnny pulled the Chrysler into a spot and motioned for Chris to get out.
"No one going over right now," he said eying the boats with the same sweeping gaze Chris had first noticed in the Bus Terminal. "They'll be somebody soon, though."
"Johnny you didn't say nothing about all this...Why it's like something out of a book," Chris said.
"Not to me. To me it's old hat."
He walked calm and easy to the dock. Chris followed. The old wood creaked and shivered under their weight. Johnny stood at the railing and surveyed the expanse of water before them. He exhaled a long column of cigarette smoke that held then wafted and danced over the water.
"Now that forest you see is not Dog Island," he said, pointing to the green mass far off at the periphery of the water. "It's really just the backside of the mainland swinging out in front of us. We'll take that curve there...take it out to the Combahee to just before she spills into the Atlantic...that's how you get to the Dog."
Chris reached and removed the cigarette from Johnny's hand. He took a light drag and returned it to between Johnny's fingers letting his lily white hand remain clasped on the top of Johnny's coal black one. Out on the water the mist kept steaming higher into the sky. A long, brown bird shot across the panoply. It was quiet except for the crickets and birds, And then... a man-made sound. The sound of an outboard motor approaching.
"That would be somebody coming from the Dog," Johnny said his eyebrows knitted like a hawk's. "Use to be able to tell everybody's boat. Don't know this one coming, though."
It came curving from the corridor, a little white and yellow motorboat a woman at the steering wheel with a baby in her free arm.
"I can't believe she's driving that thing with a baby in her arm," said Chris.
The woman cut her speed as she neared the dock. She then coasted to where the other boats where and cut the motor. Johnny headed to where to where she was docking.
"Hiya!" he called.
"Hi!" the woman called still concentrating on the boat. Johnny was there silently reaching for the infant. She handed it to him. Johnny turned and handed the baby to Chris. Johnny then turned back to extend his hand for the woman. The baby was no more than 6 months. Chris could feel the warmth of him through the thin blanket.
"Combahee pretty mild today?" Johnny asked as he steadied his arm for the woman.
"Not bad," she said. "Undertow pretty tame today, it seems."
"Look like you were holding it down pretty good," Johnny said.
"Me and the Combahee been getting along alright so far, I guess. Got no complaints, so far."
She was short and stout, brown skinned and wholesome looking. Her hair was pressed in bangs the way black women wear their hair. Her voice was black Southern and unremarkable.
"I'm Johnny Pounds and this here is Chris. I was born on the Dog. You must be new," Johnny said to smiling.
"Yes, I'm Mary Williams. You must know Clyde Williams. I'm his wife."
"Clyde Williams," Johnny repeated warmly. "I should say I know him. I'm just the one who taught that boy everything he knows about fishin' and huntin', that's all."
Mary Williams smiled then looked at Chris as if she had all at once seen him. It was an open look of surprise and vexation; one that bespoke of the woman's inability to make sense at what she was looking at. Chris' smile was now frozen on his face. This was precisely the reaction he had dreaded.
"And so where is that husband of yours," Johnny asked good naturedly.
(And this was the thing about Johnny, Chris had come to notice. His complete inability to sense tension in others.)
Mary Williams did not answer but instead reached for her baby. Chris handed the infant to her in one stiff thrust.
"Out fishin' I reckon," Johnny said answering his own question.
Mary Williams checked her baby than turned to Johnny. Her voice came out clipped and metallic.
"You can take my boat over, if you like," she said. I'll be going back over in the school boat."
"Well, that's right on the money, Mary," Johnny said, already stepping into the boat. "Sure do appreciate it."
And then the woman was padding away towards the cars her baby at her shoulder his little black face staring back at Chris as if he too was not quite certain what to make of him.
They transferred their things from the car to the boat. Then scanning the road in back of them to make sure no one was coming, Chris stepped out of his heels, hiked his dress up and began slipping off his pantyhose.
"Wha' the hell..." Johnny cursed, momentarily stunned at the spectacle.
"These are the only pantyhose I got, Johnny," Chris said smoothing his dress down and standing straight up. "I can't afford to ruin 'em walking in the dirt and everything."
"Damn," Johnny said his face a mask of disdain.
Chris rolled the pantyhose up, stuck them in his shoulder bag, then gingerly stepped into the boat. Johnny turned to the steering wheel. Chris looked at his back with a questioning, unsure gaze. Had he done something to turn Johnny off?
The big black outboard sputtered right up. Johnny deftly backed it out from the dock into the open water, then revved it and steered it from the shore. In a momemnt they were out where the thick, tree shrouded curve was. They motored right down the middle of it. The curve was actually a water lane completely walled by tree and bush for a mile ahead. No lights, no development, nothing but the river and the walls of tree and bush. It surely was no different than it had been hundreds of years earlier. A place in no book, no movie, existing as remote from when the first white slavers ferried the black Golas to the rice plantations through it. And the big black outboard kept propelling further and further up the river. And Johnny was standing at the wheel tall, strong and black. Chris stood up and went to him wrapping his arms around Johnny's chest and leaning his body full against his back.
"Hey, baby, what gives?" Johnny asked surprised at the feel of him.
"I just wanted to hold you," Chris said, his voice soft and vulnerable.
"But, baby, I'm trying to drive this thing."
"Shut-up and drive then," Chris said, his hips now pressed against Johnny's buttocks. "And another thing...this black ass is mine tonight, you got that?"
Johnny held on to the steering wheel and kept his foot steady on the accelerator. He his look of disdain had now changed to one of deep worry.
Friends:
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Gary
Scoopnet@access.digex.net
Enjoy!
The great Gary L.