Cross dressing, p.6
Cross Dressing, page 6
“I’m going to feed your testicles to my fucking dog!” Scott swore.
The security guards bent Scott violently over the conference table and cuffed him. He continued to struggle and make wheezy threats, so one of the security guys stuffed a handful of the pate televisions into Scott’s mouth. As Scott gagged on the goose liver, the security guys rooted through his pockets. They found car keys, a wallet, some ChapStick, and a small amber vial filled with a rocky white powder. “Looks like meth,” one of them said.
The other one shook his head. “Blow.”
Scott looked over his shoulder. “What? That’s not mine!”
“He’s a goddamn drug addict,” Dan yelled. “He’s crazy. Call the police! Get him out of here! He’s a fucking dope dealer!”
In his entire cringing existence, Scott had never even smoked pot, much less snorted any cocaine. It wasn’t that he disapproved, he was just too scared to do things like that. Scott knew the security guards didn’t have any reason to plant it on him, so the only one left to blame was Dan. Now, Scott was already pretty worked up about the Fujioka thing, but this sent him over the edge. He was so pissed he couldn’t begin to articulate his rage. He turned a deep red and looked, quite simply, psychotic.
The security guys lifted Scott by the arms and started to carry him out of the room. Scott finally regained the gift of speech. “The bastard’s framing me!” Pate issued from Scott’s nostrils as he continued hurling accusations. “It was my idea! I’m going to kill you, Steele! Count on it! You are a dead man!”
Oren watched as Dan, still sitting on the floor, combed the caviar from his dark hair. It seemed likely that Dan had stolen Scott’s idea. He couldn’t be sure about the cocaine allegations, but he suspected that somehow Dan had planted the toot on the poor schmuck at some point during the mayhem. This is my new business partner? Oren crossed his arms and beamed a magnificent smile. He looked like a proud parent.
Father Michael still felt like he was coming down with something. He’d had a couple of painful spasms in his abdomen and thought he should go see a doctor, but first he had to go to Van Nuys to attend Ruth’s 5150 evaluation and bail hearing. Dan talked about just leaving her in jail, but Michael finally shamed him into coughing up a check to cover her bond.
A court-appointed psychiatrist testified that Ruth had no control over her actions when she stopped taking her medication. He cited the “hostage incident” and several other examples to support his position. The judge agreed that Ruth wasn’t criminally responsible, but there was nothing the judge could do about the civil suits that had been filed by plaintiffs wanting to recover financial damages. At the end of the hearing, criminal charges were dropped and Ruth was released into Michael’s custody.
This was the first time in five years that Michael had seen his mother. He had hoped for a joyful reunion, but Ruth was exhausted and depressed after her night in jail, and no matter what Michael said, his mom wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if she was withdrawn due to a mood swing or if she was still angry with him for going to work in Africa in the first place. Michael knew she had felt abandoned when he left, but he hoped she had gotten over that. All he really wanted was to hear her say, “I love you.” He needed that right now.
Michael stretched the muscles in his neck as he led Ruth out of the police station. He wondered why they were so stiff. “I’m parked around back,” he said. They walked slowly across the parking lot toward Michael’s ancient VW bus, which he had left with a friend while in Africa. “We’re not going back to the nursing home,” he said. “We’re going out to a place in Sylmar where I’m going to work. They’re sending your stuff over later.” He opened the car door for his mother.
Ruth climbed into the VW. Michael leaned across to put on her seat belt. Ruth looked into his eyes. “You look terrible,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”
He was glad just to hear her voice. “Nah, I’m okay. It’s just, we didn’t eat very good in Africa. Probably need vitamins or something.” Michael got into the driver’s seat, cranked it up, and pulled out of the parking lot. He tried engaging Ruth in more conversation, but she wouldn’t respond to anything. She just stared out the window as Michael drove across the Valley toward Sylmar in the northeasternmost border of the L.A. city limits.
Sylmar was a largely Hispanic community on the other side of the tracks that run parallel with San Fernando Road. It sits where the foothills of the Santa Susanna Mountains meet the San Gabriels. It’s bordered on three sides by freeways. It’s dirty and dusty, and while there is a lot of plant life, it’s dirty and dusty too. Over the years, the area had evolved into a hodgepodge of low-income homes and light industrial facilities. Old ranchland and citrus and olive orchards had been converted to a ratty suburban purgatory, not really hell but certainly not Pacific Palisades.
Father Michael pulled off the freeway at Polk and turned right at the First Adventist Church. A couple of blocks later, past Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception and then Holy Family Catholic Church, they arrived at the Care Center. It was a large two-story boardinghouse built in the thirties, desert tan with a faded brown roof and trim. It sat at the back of a half acre of crabgrass, gravel, and dirt. There was a tired carport leaning against the east side of the building, tattered blue vinyl tarps stretched across the back doing their best to turn the structure into a garage. Bertha was parked underneath.
Sister Peg came out to meet them. “You must be Father Michael,” she said. “Welcome to the Care Center.”
Father Michael tried not to stare, but he found Sister Peg’s eyes irresistible. They were brown, sweet as angel’s breath, and perfectly framed by her habit. “It’s nice to meet you, Sister,” he said. He was surprised by the effect her eyes had and after a moment realized he was in the middle of an awkward pause. “Oh, uh, this is Ruth, my mother,” he said. “She’s not feeling well. I think she just wants to get some rest.” Ruth never looked up, never spoke. She felt like damaged goods being shuffled from one storage facility to another.
“I understand,” Sister Peg said. “I’ve got her room ready.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s take her up and then I’ll give you the nickel tour if we’ve got time.”
“Perfect.” Father Michael gently urged his mom toward the house.
Sister Peg was encouraged by Father Michael’s sweet demeanor and tender smile. The way he walked by his mother’s side instead of walking ahead of her revealed the sort of patience and kindness and respect that most people didn’t bother with anymore. She was glad to have him here.
Sister Peg showed Father Michael and Ruth to Mr. Smith’s old room. It was the smallest bedroom in the house and the only one with privacy. While Father Michael unpacked her small suitcase, Ruth sat on the edge of her new bed, looking out the window in silence. “Get some rest, Mom. I’ll check in on you later.” He gave her a kiss on the head.
Outside, Father Michael told Sister Peg about the stolen-truck escapade but assured her that his mom was back on her medication. Sister Peg told him not to worry. “Your mom’s in good hands,” she said with a reassuring smile. She looked at her watch again. “I’ve got to be across the Valley in half an hour, so I’ll show you around real quick, then I’ve got to go.” She showed him the rest of the second floor. There were eight bedrooms off the hallway, most of which were occupied by elderly residents. There was a community bathroom at the end of the hall. Next to that was a small room outfitted with a card table and two old jigsaw puzzles.
At the bottom of the stairs they paused at another bedroom. Inside was a young girl, about seven. Sister Peg tapped on the door. “Hi, Alissa. This is Father Michael.”
Alissa looked up with wary green eyes. She had feathery blond bangs draped across her forehead. The bruises healing on her face were ghastly blue-gray patches. Her arms looked like evidence photos. She was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. She had been playing with an old doll until these two adults showed up in the doorway. She put the doll in her lap and eyed them skeptically.
Father Michael started into the room, but Sister Peg stopped him. Alissa tensed noticeably, her face suddenly conveying a toughness that said she could take any abuse that came her way. “It’s okay,” Sister Peg said. “We’re not going to bother you.” Sister Peg led Father Michael down the hall. “Her father,” she said. Her tone was uncomplimentary and explained the bruises. “I’ve got custody until he gets out of County.”
“Mother’s in jail too?”
“Don’t even know who she is,” Sister Peg said. She looked at Father Michael and didn’t need to say anything else. She had seen this story a thousand times before, and he had seen much worse. They walked the rest of the way down the hall in silence. Father Michael, wondering if that sort of thing would ever end. Sister Peg, thinking of the Old Testament, the part about an eye for an eye.
Sister Peg quickly showed Father Michael the kitchen, the dining room, her office, and, finally, the TV room where many of the Care Center’s older residents spent their days and nights living vicariously better lives through television. The only one there at the moment was Mr. Saltzman, a gnarled seventy-eight-year-old who looked like he had suffered more than most. He was sitting on the front edge of his chair, his thick arms folded tight against his chest. A few strands of white hair drifted over his liver-spotted scalp. He was watching Eyewitness Action On-the-Spot News, covering the latest high-speed chase on L.A. freeways. “Stupid bastards,” he muttered to no one.
Sitting on the far side of the room, near a window, was a big Hispanic kid. He was a sixteen-year-old in an eighteen-year-old’s hard body. His dark hair was short. He wore baggy pants and a T-shirt stained with a rainbow of paints. His torso was a landscape of green ink on nut brown skin. He was hunched over a sketch pad, pencil in hand. He didn’t look up when Sister Peg and Father Michael came in. “That’s Ruben,” Sister Peg said. “Our in-house artist.”
“Hi, Ruben,” Michael said, his hand in the air. Ruben didn’t look up from the sketch pad. Father Michael waited a moment. “Must be mid-inspiration.”
Sister Peg shook her head. “He’s deaf. He came here a few years ago to get out of a gang. Now he’s one of my underpaid employees. He’s the one who does any heavy lifting that needs to be done, so he’ll be glad you’re here.” Sister Peg stamped a foot on the floor and Ruben looked up. He smiled and showed her what he was working on. It wasn’t a drawing. He’d been filling out a lottery form. The jackpot was up to thirty-two million dollars. He put his hands together in mock prayer.
Using sign language, Sister Peg slowly, if gracefully, introduced Father Michael. Ruben responded with fingernails raking up his neck and off his chin. Despite the fact that it looked like an Italian threat, Ruben’s generous smile conveyed the sense that he was happy to have a fellow underpaid employee. He acknowledged Father Michael with a short upward nod of the head, then returned his attention to picking numbers for Saturday’s Lotto drawing—the state’s version of hope and salvation.
“What sort of painting does he do?”
“He’s a wizard with a can of spray paint,” Sister Peg said. “He does some sculpting too. I think he’s got talent, but I’m not a judge of that sort of thing.” She turned and headed for the hallway.
Father Michael stopped abruptly. He felt another sharp spasm in his abdomen. He bent slightly at the waist and sent two fingers to probe under his ribs, easing the discomfort. This was the worst one yet. If this didn’t clear up on its own, he’d definitely have to see a doctor.
Father Michael caught up with Sister Peg who had stopped to watch the end of the high-speed chase on the news. They stood there long enough to see the next story. The desk anchor threw it to a reporter who was standing inside a huge warehouse somewhere in Los Angeles. “Thanks, Bob,” the reporter said. “You know, they used to say the moon was made of green cheese. Well, if you’ve ever wondered how much cheese it would take to do that, the contents of this warehouse ought to give you a pretty good idea!” The camera pulled back to a long, wide shot of an enormous warehouse. The reporter explained that the 600,000-square-foot warehouse was filled to the rafters with cheese and other dairy products. “And all of this is anything but hard cheese for California’s dairy farmers. This warehouse is just a small part of the government’s complex overall strategy to keep the state’s dairy industry immune to the price fluctuations that can be caused by cheaper imported products. Oh, and one more thing,” the reporter said. “I think if I were to come back in another life, I’d like to come back here … as a mouse!” The reporter chuckled. “Back to you in the studio, Bob.”
“Christ, that pisses me off!” Sister Peg turned to walk away.
Father Michael followed her. “The waste or the inane chatter?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I don’t mean to make a bad first impression. But that sort of … crap makes me crazy.”
“Believe me, I understand.” He thought of all the absurd church and government policies he’d encountered in Africa, policies that prevented tons of food and medicine from reaching the sick and starving refugees. “But what can you do?” he asked rhetorically.
“Give me a minute,” Sister Peg said. “I’ll think of something.” She looked at her watch. “All right, I’ve got to take off. But I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
“First thing.” Father Michael was about to go back upstairs to check on Ruth when he had another spasm. He doubled over and decided he had to see a doctor.
Scott Emmons was in an unemployed funk. He was lying on the sofa in his robe watching television. It was during a break between talk shows that he saw the commercial for the first time. It opened with the Zen master sitting at the edge of a reflecting pool. When Scott saw the red neon Fujioka logo mirrored in the black water, he sat up so fast he nearly herniated a disk. It was just as he had imagined it. He leaned close to the screen, taking in every detail.
There was a small boom box on the ground in front of the Zen master. Once the scene was established, the Zen master reached out and pushed the Play button on the cassette player. The meditative strains of a koto wafted in like liquid silk. The Zen master looked up peacefully. “A wise man once said, less is more.” He paused, as if considering the notion. “But after further contemplation, wise man corrected himself.”
The Zen master pushed the Stop button on the small boom box and the strains of the koto vanished. Suddenly there was a disturbance on the calm surface of the reflecting pool. The Fujioka logo shimmered as something began to emerge from the pool’s inky depths. A huge big-screen TV and a bank of ominous black stereo equipment with massive speakers rose silently from the water, towering over the Zen master, who looked up at it with a grin. The Zen master pulled a remote control from his robes, pointed it at the glistening wall of electronics. He smiled, then punched the Play button.
The TV screen and the stereo exploded to life with an insane acid-jazz-metal-rap-rock music video. The Zen master smiled knowingly and nodded his approval in rhythm with the beat. An announcer’s voice tagged the spot with a simple phrase. “Fujioka Electronics. More is more.”
Scott tried to scream, but nothing came out. He tried harder, calling on all the strength of his frustrations, but his voice remained silent. The veins in his neck stood out like fat blue snakes as he strained to push the air from his lungs into his vocal cords. Scott began to tremble as he thought about what Dan had taken from him and then, with his crimson face swollen and threatening to explode, Scott blacked out and whacked his head on the coffee table.
Dan gave Michael twenty bucks and the keys to his car. “Do me a favor,” he said, “stay out late.”
Beverly had finally returned Dan’s call late on Friday. She thanked him for all the roses and said she was going to be in town Saturday night. “I want to see you,” she said. “You were a bad boy to stand me up. I think you need to be disciplined.”
“I was very bad,” Dan said. “But I’m willing to take my punishment like a man. Just tell me where and when.”
“Tomorrow night, your place, so you can’t stand me up so easily,” she said. “I’ll be there at eight with some new toys, assuming you’re into that sort of thing.” Click.
Dan had no idea what these toys were, but he was definitely game. He spent Saturday at the market. He bought multiple packs of AAA-, AA-, C-, and D-size batteries in case Beverly’s gadgets were energy hogs. Then, fearing his old ones were past their expiration date, Dan threw out his condoms and replaced them with a new box. Feeling cocky, he bought the large size, ribbed and purple.
Back home, Dan cranked the stereo and started cooking. He sang along to a favorite old song, “All I ask of you … is to make my wildest dream come true …” He released two beautiful sea bass steaks into a pond of sweet ginger and soy marinade in preparation for steaming with scallions and shiitakes. Then he spent an entire hour preparing his favorite pan-Asian appetizer. The wine was a buttery California chardonnay. Beverly was dessert.
Dan’s timing was perfect. He was out of the shower, dried, and dressed with ten minutes to spare. He poured a glass of the chardonnay, put on “Countdown to Ecstasy,” and relaxed on the sofa, thinking, God is good.
Beverly arrived like a storm front in a see-through blouse and studded leather collar. Her beautiful bare legs dropped from a clingy short skirt. Satanic green eyes burned underneath her shiny brown bangs. She carried a small cosmetics case inside of which Dan assumed were Beverly’s bizarre sex toys. Dan started getting hard just thinking about it. “Appetizers are almost ready,” he said as she slinked in. “Szechwan dumplings.”
“We’ll eat later,” Beverly announced, taking Dan by the belt buckle. “You have to be punished first.” She led him to the bedroom and unzipped him. “How fast can you get out of those pants?” Dan was buck naked before she could say “depraved inclinations.” “Do you want to touch me?” Beverly asked as she put Dan’s hands on her breasts and closed her eyes. “Do you want to do things to me?” Too stupefied to use words, Dan started fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. Beverly stopped him and shoved him toward the bed. “Lie down,” she said firmly. Dan complied. “You were very bad. I don’t like to be stood up. It’s humiliating.”
