My Own End � Jesse
Vince�s influence had captivated me. Not only was I able to walk outside the apartment and expose myself, but also, I had no qualms or insecurities about applying makeup or donning a dress to go out with Vince. In fact, he served as the catalyst that brought about my realization of the closet I had unwittingly built for myself. I was hiding in my fears for my desires, and he blatantly displayed the thick walls that surrounded me.
Every day to work, I noticed that Vince did not wear pants or slacks of any sort. And, unlike most men � such as my estranged father � he did not tie a gaudy necktie about his collar. In his closet, I observed, there were no such objects as neckties or staid-colored slacks of navy blue or black. Hanging from every hanger were vibrantly patterned dresses in purples and aqua greens, polyester blouses, jeans cut for a female figure, and heeled shoes. Nowhere in sight were any masculine garments that my brothers would have worn.
Gazing upon Vince�s unique attire, I discovered my walls � composed of heavy cinderblocks and without a visible exit. Glancing at my own pile of clothes and makeup, I noticed the deficiency, and it began to consume my insides with its voracious hunger. This game was not to be played any longer, I thought, for I could no longer feign my existence. A picture of my last night at home flashed through my mind suddenly � my father, as he pushed me and exposed my rose-patterned dress, and my mother, as she screamed and groped her neck. They forced me away, I told myself, and now I continued to live in fear, although I realized that they ousted me from my position. Vince lived with his flamboyant, effeminate ways, and thus, following his example, I continued to bring mine to the limelight.
In school, I continued to wear my trench coat, but no longer was it buttoned to the collar. Almost every day, I would clad myself in the usual blacks, pinks, and purples; however, I wore them with my pride for the fact that I no longer hid from the world. Vince never seemed to hide, the men and women at Purple Fingernails did not hide, and I, Jesse, would hide no longer as well.
Despite, I could not hold up my head and stand my own ground against my tormentors. From their perspective, they had more tangible reasons to torture me, push me into walls, and shove me into adjacent trashcans. My period of physical education continued to the penultimate worst point of the day, as always, but I seemed to manage superficially. Ignoring them became my strategy, partially, but I still had not devised a maneuver to avoid a confrontational encounter. Surrounded by a group of fiends, I was caught � trapped in a cage and ensconced by a vast pit of fire � as they threw epithets of �faggot� and �drag queen� like a tree sheds leaves in the winter. And, the words piled up but slid off my conscience like water.
What was I supposed to do? Being as effeminate as I was, I did not have the ability and courage to ball my fists out of my pockets and wave them in the air. Glynis was also absent, and thus, she could not offer her fists to protect me. Occasionally, the scenario resulted in a burst away from the group � out of the iron fence � and a transitory sprint down the hallway to my next class. Today, however, that was not the case of the situation. Glaring down upon me, as I sat aloof in the cafeteria, was Glynis� older brother, Mike. Both of his fists had turned to a pale crimson about the knuckles as he planted them into the table top in front of me. A nefarious glint reflected itself from his eyes to my own. Upon his lips was a slight glaze of saliva, but that only served as a disarming effect to the clenched yellowed teeth behind the swelling, glossy lips.
Instantly, as soon as he arrived, my book fell into my lap, crashing lightly against my legs. Tremulously, I quivered in my seat from the sight of him � bulging shoulder muscles and sweat streaming down his face. What does he want, I wondered, as I timidly stared upward at him. By the volcanic expression that traversed his visage, his malicious intent seemed as imminent as my next tremor.
�What the hell did you do to my sister?� he retorted, and then spat upon the tabletop.
Words could not captivate my lips, and I stared at him in fear, with my mouth agape and no sound escaping from my throat. Every moment I remained silent, his glare bore into me like a knife slowly cutting away my skin; however, the blood had yet to flow from my veins.
�Listen to me when I talk to you, faggot.� In an instant, he seized my shoulders, before pushing me with a swift thrust backwards, trying to force me from my seat. Falling onto the floor, I apprehensively stared upward, as he seemingly towered above me, until I stood up and sat down again.
�What�d you do to Glynis?� he asked again in a sour tone.
The words were latent to reaching my tongue and escaped my lips in a soft, almost inaudible, tone. �I don�t kn-know wuh-what you muh-m-mean.� And, honestly, I didn�t know his motivations for provoking me.
�Listen, she-man, Glynis was with some biker-chick girl yesterday, and I want you to keep your faggoty ass away from her. Hear?�
I didn�t comprehend. For weeks, I had not seen Glynis; a brief conversation on a payphone was our only contact. Glynis� family did not think favorably of me, and thus, I seldom entered the boundaries of their house. The purple hair and gaudy makeup might have ignited their animosity, but, as a unit, they thought I was a �white trash fag� � full of sin and poverty that made dirt shine like pyrite. Although when I was in her mother�s presence I was humored, all of them spat down in disdain upon me.
�If I see you near Glynis again,� he threatened, �I will rip off your balls � the little you have � and shove them down your fuckin� throat.�
�I d-don�t understand,� I murmured, to myself and to him, and began to become timorous again.
�What do you mean you �don�t understand�?� he rebuked with a haughty air. �You turned my sister into a faggot, you goddamn queer. Why do you think a girl was in our house, seeing her?�
Reply I did not, for I was too shocked for words. Glynis was a lesbian, I wondered. Perhaps the girl she mentioned was indeed her lover � the girl that had replaced me. In the sour, stale air of the cafeteria, nausea boiled inside of me, until its deposits became the seeds of depression to be sowed in my fields of longing. Who was this girl, I wondered. Why did she possess so much prowess so that she could hypnotize Glynis into following her?
�Answer me, you goddamn fat drag queen.� He shoved me again, but did not knock me from my seat this time. �Are you goin� to stay away from my sister?�
Again, I remain silent as he became enraged, but this merely infuriated him. How could I lie, saying �yes�? I didn�t want to stay away from Glynis, but she was now beginning to confuse me. Glynis had not told me that she was a lesbian previously, but she and I hadn�t spoken a meaningful discourse since I left home. To Mike�s question, I decided to reply with an ambivalent �I don�t know,� which, from my lips, sounded like the faint ricochet of a gun. Fear had the power to transform me from a stolid wall of silence into a timorous, trembling child. Mike was trying to force the latter to surface � the side that would allow me to become a hysterically crying androgynous being that sounded like a female, as the makeup streamed down my countenance to reveal the vague masculine features that seldom revealed themselves.
�You fuckin� pussy,� he mumbled with disgust under his breath, before spitting upon the table again. �Just you wait until I make you moan in fuckin� pain, you queer. If I catch you near my sister, I�ll pound your fuckin� faggoty face into the fuckin� pavement, without no questions. Get me?�
The wrinkles and folds of the terrain of Mike�s face began to deepen and grow darker, becoming like sudden canyons on a barren landscape. Liquid rage boiled inside of the flaming cauldrons in his pupils and allowed animosity to pervade his visage. The teeth behind his lips gleamed with saliva, while his lips became dry. Each tooth grinded together with the one above it � yellow upon yellow � as the saliva slid down the enamel with the viscosity of syrup. Complete with a furrowed brow and sweat droplets forming colonies about his temples, Mike�s horrid visage caused my adrenaline and internal fear to soar, until every object about me seemed to shake as well.
�What�d you make of that?� he rebuked with a sneer. �I see you near Glynis again � just be glad I don�t kill your sorry ass.� He paused, waiting for me to respond, but I did not. �So answer me, she-man.�
Mike brought his face closer to mine, until I could distinctly smell the pungent odor of his breath from the weeks� worth of accumulation of plague. How I wanted to run from this insane fiend and, then, hide in my dark �closet,� wrapped in a dark blanket of comfort, to lick my wounds. But, at this moment, Mike was the fire surrounding my cage. His flames leaped higher, melting the metal bars that I grasped onto. The fire wanted to consume me but to torture me first until I succumbed to its power. Like the flames that crept close to the tips of my boots, the collapse was imminent by a few minutes. His face reddened, and, from my point of proximity, the veins bulged like blue mountain ranges along his neck. Unaware of the swiftness of his moves, I suddenly noticed that my collar was balled in his red-knuckled fists, and his face, changing to a vermilion shade like a mercury thermometer, was only inches from mine.
�Have it your way,� he said, spitting with contempt. �Just you wait until after school. I�d get my pansy-ass home if I were you.� Then, to leave his infamous mark, he shoved me to the ground before walking away and out of my site.
As the bell to signal the change of periods rang, my face was inches from hitting the filthy linoleum floor of the cafeteria. However, although I managed to break my fall, the fear of Mike�s threat settled on top of me, in the form of a metaphoric dark cloud, raining hailstones. As soon as I stood, clutching my books against my chest, the sensations of helplessness and fright passed over me and released their anchors into the pool of my consciousness.
Should I go to class or just run to Vince�s apartment, I asked myself, as I watched all of the other students clearing the room. Only one period remained before the school day terminated, and then, my fate would be at the mercy of Mike�s threat. However, there was no question about how I would treat Mike�s nefarious words: I would ignore them and see Glynis, once I could reach her. She could be a lesbian, but I didn�t care. This notion about her sexuality seemed as inevitable as my desire to be female. Hugging my books closer to my chest, I turned toward the hallway to walk to class. After school, I would become the usual coward in the bathroom.
An hour later, I did indeed become the coward, hiding in the bathroom to surreptitiously apply his makeup and to avoid being pummeled and spurned on the pavement outside. The voices from the hallway echoed in the tile-walled bathroom, as I meticulously applied my mascara. However, the voices did not ring with familiarity to my ears. Perhaps Mike had forgotten about his threat, I hoped, but I continued to cower in the bathroom until the voices disappeared. After every stroke to my eyelashes, I paused to observe the reverberations of the noises from bodies I couldn�t see, until the cacophonic sounds began to soften and dissipate into silence.
Tonight, Vince planned to go out after work. Ironically, he was now working fewer hours, but for more pay. His mother could buy more food again, and we weren�t living off powdered chicken broth every night. Once Vince arrived home in the evening, he planned to take me out with him to the movies for a screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show � which I had never seen � and to a poetry reading at some place adjacent to Purple Fingernails. Only the movie would cost money, he assured me, and now, he had enough to pay for both of us.
My reflection had become even more androgynous over the past weeks of living with Vince. The image in the mirror screamed neither masculine nor feminine but uttered its own voice. At sixteen-years-old, my voice had made few tonal changes, and my chin had not sprouted any hairs. This voice made no noise, and, instead, reflected my lack of physical maturity. My father�s �Be a man,� speech surfaced in my mind, but I could no longer hang my head in shame from his caustic words. How could I feel any remorse when I had never lived up to his expectations of the epitome of masculinity?
Analyzing my past, even before Heather left for college and seldom ventured home after, I realized that I had always grown closer to her, rather than my brothers. As child, enraptured by his innocence, I desired to emulate her styles � the manners in which she walked and talked and the satisfied expression of excitement she had whenever she waved at her boyfriend as he left the house once her date was finished. But, I observed as I grew older and shed most of my innocence, I was told my adults and snickering peers that I could not � and never � be like Heather. I was cast into pairs of second-hand, dirt-splattered jeans and pushed into a group of boys. �No,� I would tell them, as they mocked my unwittingly effeminate mannerisms, �I have no desire to become a cop or behave like a heroic fireman.� My words, however, were misconstrued, and I was pegged a pariah from the age of six.
Even after her freshman year of college, Heather still appeared shocked, as she caught me in her old adolescent clothes and makeup. How I desired to have a boyfriend to drive me home in his car, kiss me goodnight at my door, and then drive away, as I waved to him from the door frame � to live the stereotype. However, I was told I had to be that handsome gentleman with the car. At ten-years-old, this fate seemed analogous to the story of the tooth fairy, since I never envisioned myself with the car that thundered up the street. This had to be a lie to confuse me about my role as Jesse, the pariah, I contemplated, as I sat on my bed, alone, often. Yet, with the inevitable, this ten-year-old grew into an adolescent with more questions than tangible answers.
Then, the shower of derogatory words hit my skin like bullets and confused me further. Why was I a �queer� and a �fag,� but not the boy sitting next to me? How come I, in faded jeans, was called a �queen,� while drag queens � the ones I saw on television � were mocked for their gender exaggerations? I didn�t know. I felt myself fall into the pit of despair, and only Glynis, the antithesis of my image, seemed to be able to pull me from the depths.
Now Glynis was a self-proclaimed lesbian, and I was forced to suffer the consequences of her brother�s ignorance. I, myself, was still confused about my sexuality, but, by knowing Glynis� audacity, a decree of her sexuality only seemed inevitable. And, I knew that I did not qualify as an influence upon her. How could I force her to love the same female sex, while I was still confused about my own gender role? Glynis never seemed to be confused, while I was always contemplating the enigmas that were thrown at me throughout life. No concept, no matter its intricacy, could stymie her, I knew; only her motivation proved to be a larger impediment.
However, Mike loathed me, and my effeminate ways seemed to be a blatant scapegoat for his rage. If anarchy became society�s system of government, Mike would probably hang me from a tree, before slicing me from my throat to my knees with a newly sharpened knife. Perhaps, he�d stab me with a bayonet and then shoot me to death, before writing �here lies the fag� in my blood upon the ground. Stigmatizing me as a faggot and a freak seemed simple, since my surface did not reveal me as a definite gender. But, I did not want to succumb or fall prey to his blood � insatiable hatred. Ironically, I was going to be a coward and hide, until the halls of North High were desolate. The impact of his fists into my jaw and the mascara streaming down my face already prevailed in my envisioning of the imminent future.
Contradicting my premonition was the notion of Vince. In a few hours, we would arrive home, and we would soon leave for the movies. His mother�s filling chicken soup and potato pancakes could already be tasted upon my tongue. Yet, the adjacent urinals glared at me, and the ubiquitous odor of defecations attempted to drive me away. Was I to succumb?
I was a helpless slave. The bathroom drove me away, in disgust, and the hallway, sparsely populated with a few straggling students, greeted me coldly. Mike did not stand in my field of vision, but I seldom trusted my eyes. Standing at a distance, he could be clandestinely lurking behind me, or else, he could be hiding behind a random corner, ready to knock me to the floor. However, I realized that if I merely walked home, rather than waiting at a bus stop, I could avoid him and escape my prone position in his ruse.
As soon as I stepped onto the pavement, encrusted with spots of gum, dirt, and cigarettes, my palms began to sweat, creating canals of secretions in the creases, and I began to uncontrollably shake under my coat as well. Staring down at my boots, I noticed that the toes and heels clicked against the pavement, vibrating in a timorous, but volatile fashion. Too late to cower in the building again, I told myself, but I had cigarettes in my pocket that I bought with my lunch money � a whole pack awaiting a fate of immolation and inhalation. What a waste, I thought, as I grabbed the pack with my perspiring, trembling hands, but what a waste of life if I have to be constantly ashamed of myself. As I lit the paper between my fingers, I wanted to suddenly reprimand myself for my recent flamboyancy � coming to school in dresses and tight pants in purple and rose patterns; I had already tied the noose about my neck before I let myself be mocked in the stocks.
I must go to Vince�s, I told myself, commanding myself to rapidly walk there. Behind, to my sides, and in front, Mike could not be seen. But, however, I could not rely on my vision. Stores were occupied with customers and appeared as lamps in their drab brick frames. The winds whipped about me and opened my coat until it seemed to be suspended in the air like a black cape. Underneath, my dress was filled with the air and my shirt was inflated as well, but I had no breasts and no hips. And, the desire to masturbate to the fictitious, impeccable image of a young man lingered through my body. The �woman� was lost to me at the moment, but I wanted to connect with her in some form, even if it was not physical. Give me breasts and hips and let me be held in the comforting arms of a man. Let me cry and have him listen intently to my emotions. No, the dress and the makeup were not enough. As the wind exposed my weaknesses, the desires swelled inside of me, changing into vines that strangled my soul, before capturing me with their grasp. The vines, with the roses, upon my dress grew, but strangled me simultaneously. �Who do you think you are?� they asked in belittling tones. �Why do you think you�re being oppressed?�
But, the voices did not seem to mock and the sidewalk did not burst into a vermilion conflagration; the stores remained as lanterns amidst the decaying facades of the row of buildings. And, staring at me in the face was a rose, with its red, velvety petals in full-bloom, in a storefront, cut away from the rest of the bush. Having no thorns and appearing disarming, it beckoned me into its realm. As I stood over it and the others in the water-filled bucket, all I managed to do was admire its beauty. �Infinite,� I repeated to myself, as if I were uttering �Euphoria.� The petals curved outward but became smaller and stiffer as the spiral wound toward its center. The center reminded me of a pink cabbage, with miniscule red petals forming a bud, before slowing fanning outward.
The scent became intoxicating � even the cigarette between my lips seemed to loose its fragrance. And, it enraptured me into its spell, as well. How could I not be in bliss? The stem was not dotted with razor-like thorns to bleed me, but, instead, the pristine beauty of this single blossom captured my soul and body and led me into its realm. I was its slave, and the master of its pleasure. As I bent down to kiss the delicate petals, a blissful notion traversed my mind. �Euphoria,� I murmured into the rose�s elegant form before we kissed. Its face pressed close to mine, and its velvety hands caressed my cheeks. �Hush,� the blossom seemed to whisper into my ear. �Just you wait and see.�
The traces of my lipstick looked like blemishes upon the rose, but the flower continued to smile back at me. In the flower shop, it rested in a pool, maimed from its roots and left to die, despite its beauty. �Tomorrow,� I whispered, �I�ll be able to save you. I�ll give you life, and we�ll thrive.� I paused, as the light about me darkened. �Euphoria,� I murmured, and the cigarette stump fell from my lips to the ground.
�You don�t live anywhere near here,� stated a voice above in a haughty tone. �Four blocks south of the school, She-man. Your white-trash, pansy ass could only wish to live in the fuckin� Art District.�
The roses in the bucket became invisible as Mike grabbed the front of my dress, dragged me into the street, and, then, cast me prone into the sidewalk. The bubbling glob of spittle, spat from his lips, splattered on the ground, inches away from my face.
�Get up and prove to me you�re a man,� he commanded. His faced appeared no different than it did at lunch.
Falling onto my front had knocked most of my breath out, and my lungs stung as I tried to gasp for air. My lips were creaking hinges of a door that refused to open, and saliva gathered upon my tongue, inundating my mouth. Inches away from me were his boots, glinting below the residue from the snow and salt in the afternoon sun. The toes would prefer to spurn me again, I thought, as my breath gradually returned. The yearning gasps transformed into short breaths, and I mustered enough energy to stand and face Mike, with his contemptuous glare; I vowed that he would not spit upon me again.
�C�mon, faggot. Show me you�ve got some manhood in you.�
His words seemed trite, but for a moment, we stood on the sidewalk, in front of the flower shop. The images of the roses eluded my mind until their infinite rows of red velvet petals became analogous to Mike�s flaming visage. I had to run, to escape their disarming allure and his scorn; grayish mounds of snow stretched before me, like monstrous piles of cigarette ashes. But, Vince�s apartment stood a block away � I could run that distance, I knew; his mother was home, watching her soap operas, anyway. The path was desolate, for not a soul dwelled on the sidewalk at three o�clock on a Thursday afternoon in mid-March. As the cars in the street simultaneously slowed their speed, I burst away, fueled by my fear and fury, in a sprint down the sidewalk, without taking a glance behind me.
To my sides, the piles of grayish snow and the wall of brick buildings fused together, until the fast-paced movement about me seemed to become cement pouring from the sky to form a wall about me and the sidewalk. Blue, red, green, and black cars became insignificant specks in the metamorphosis, but the sky remained a uniform gray. The telephone wires looked as if they were infinite boundaries, like a horizon, that separated the sky from the rest of the world that was transforming into a cement-covered wasteland. Windows shattered and children screamed, but they didn�t appear as tangible objects in this blurred confusion. As a final effort, I tried to call out to Vince in desperation, but a stiff hand, with fingers resembling metallic daggers slithered itself like a snake about my throat � no Adam�s apple to be seen, just a few necklaces and smeared red lipstick upon my chin. Yet, Vince�s name did not come off my tongue, and the sky, with the cement pouring down into the street, caved into the sidewalk.
�Don�t you dare say her name again,� Mike rebuked, as his fingers wrapped themselves about me throat even more.
I was not cognizant, especially became Vince�s apartment was staring at me across the alley. He had a ground level room with no windows, but I could neither see his mother nor yell for her to hear me.
�I told you to stay away from my sister,� Mike asserted, with a soupcon of threat in his voice. �Now, why the fuck don�t you get me?�
My mouth refused to open, although he lifted his hand from my throat. The alley spun, and Vince�s apartment became a vortex that I could not reach, even with an outstretched hand.
�Answer me.� Gears grinded, doors slammed shut, and iron was welded, but I was without anesthetic.
�I ha-haven�t see-seen her in a muh-muh-month,� I managed to squeak.
�Liar,� he spat and assailed me with a blow to the cheek. Although I turned away out of fright, I still noticed that a trace of pink rouge lay upon his knuckles. �She�s been acting more queerer than before. I know you was with her the day before she got drunk with that girl.�
�I-I wasn�t,� I mumbled below my breath, as tears sprang from my eyes. My cheek swelled from the blow, but his disdain was like poison being pumped through my veins that immediately led to my heart. Just don�t wear it upon your sleeve, I reminded myself. Maybe he�ll think you�re less of a sissy. But I couldn�t even look at him in his eyes, and the tears indiscreetly streamed down my face, taking the black mascara from my eyelashes with them.
�Then explain to me why she�s fuckin� some girl.� His crudeness made me cringe, from his mouth spouting curses to his yellowed teeth and globs of spittle he cast at anyone whom he despised. A trembling sensation crept up my spine, and I shuddered in disgust.
�I don�t know why she�s fucking anyone,� I blurted out, landing hard on the �-ing� of �fucking.� Considering I loathed swearing, this taboo was merely inevitable.
Mike laughed and, then, spat in my face; the spit hit below my left eye. �You goddamn fag. My sister doesn�t even say �fucking;� hasn�t she taught you nothing?� He emphasized the �-ing� to point out my masculine inadequacies. Pausing, he contemptuously chuckled to himself, before saying, �Prove to me you�re a man.�
�No,� I mumbled, trying to break from the direction of his glare. Instead, suddenly, but always inevitably, he cornered me and pinned me into the far wall of the alley. Vince�s apartment became father away.
Continuing to glare, his eyes looked me up and down, from my face with the mottled, dripping makeup to my boots that had a thin layer of salt residue at the tips. The sun barely shone in the alley, and, thus, the salt gave them the appearance of a chalk dusting � not that it was very relevant now. How I wanted to button my trench coat up to the collar again and hide the androgyny I had emulated from Vince. My heart, as well as the rose-printed dress and tight black velvet pants, was exposed, and my soul would be imminently sliced for a dissection. It would be psychiatry, without the classification of mental illness.
The hardened green marbles of his eyes halted their motion and became fixed on my belt. But, as I tried to discreetly observe the position of his eyes, I noticed that they stared at my skirt. The sickly smirk upon his face drew blood and color into his lips, as his laugh rang into my ears like an air raid siren. Ten, nine, eight. The fission from the bomb would become ubiquitous in the grayish skies above.
�Lift it up,� he commanded, but spoke discreetly between clenched teeth. Trying to feign naivety, I did not heed to his words, hoping that he would not lift my dress up. �Are you fuckin� stupid, She-man?� he disdainfully asked. Against the dingy, crumbling walls of the alley, I felt myself grow smaller, drawing closer to the trash that littered the ground. The green marble eyes took the form of light beams and, as if being cast down from a lighthouse at night into a dark ocean, shone down upon me with their glare, laced with contempt for my inadequacies. Run, I tried to convince myself, run down the alley to Vince�s apartment, but my legs became stolid, like wooden fence posts.
�C�mon, you queen, show me your pecker, if you�ve got one. Prove to me you�re a real man, and not some fuckin� fake, and I�ll leave you alone.�
The cynicism rose up inside of me, until I tasted the sardonic bitterness in my saliva. However, I was trapped � between the wall and Mike and between self-salvation and humiliation. Go and run, you�ll make it, I attempted to assure myself, but a new surfacing of cynicism only replied with a stronger retort that kept me in place.
�No,� I murmured, staring at the pavement beneath my feet. A food wrapper, made from green cellophane that had lost its luster, rested itself below the tow of my boot. The snow had left a residue on that, as well as on this spot of pavement in the alley � no one bothered to clean up the place or even salt it for residents like Vince, who left his apartment at seven o�clock in the morning in worn high heels and thread-bare stockings. In my mind, he was always Vince, my savior and my protector; he had become the leader to guide me out of the depths of my self-made closet of insecurities. But, with one slip on the ice, as he ventured to work, and he would become nothing more than Vince, the nameless cross-dresser. The stranger with long, greasy black hair, with red heels and slight mustache was only Vince, �Vinny� to his mother, but merely Vince, the freak, in everyone else�s eyes. If his neck snapped, no one would utter the event to his mother, and no one would attempt to give him a funeral. The pale-skinned corpse would decay in the street, like the carcass of a stray dog, while his androgynous image would only be placed in the stocks of society to be mocked. And, he was the first person to open my trench coat. Perhaps I am destined for the stocks as well.
For the moments of silence that passed between Mike and me, his animosity built and grew into a malignant colony on his visage. The cynicism inside of me dissipated as my fears and anxieties took over, inundating my mind with images of past humiliations. The past weeks in the locker room. Being pinned down by Tom. Getting pummeled in the bathroom. The �rape� rumor that eluded Mrs. Smithe�s ears. To her, I was nothing more than the poetry and essays I wrote. And, in the eyes of everyone else, I could be torn up and thrown into the fire nonchalantly like a trite poem I wished to dispose of.
The angst, characterizes by the red splotches on his cheeks, spread across his face like blood on a snow-covered battlefield. The bayonets that hid in his pupils became prevalent and spotted its first and only victim on the desolate field. No charging, no orders, and only one casualty, but no glorious fireworks of victory followed.
Against the wall, I began to decay like the red bricks. The cruel practice of duck hunting as the birds lay on the lake, instead of flying in the sky. The �sport� of war had no rules, and cheating one�s way to victory seemed to be the only cogent way to survive. And, my throat was slashed.
To sprout breasts and don a vagina and hips surfaced in my mind as my only hope to this encounter. But, through the layers of flowered, lace, and tight materials, I could have claimed to be a woman and passed the acceptance test into society. Instead, I lay on the frigid, sordid ground, with tears of humiliation streaming down my face, as my clothes were rumpled and wrinkled by Mike�s force. I was less of a man than when the rose seduced me in the flower shop. Slowly, wrapped in his dismay, Mike escaped the alley, yelling, �Wait �til your white trash parents find out, She-man,� or something like that. As I laid with the trash on the pavement, his words became muted and visage blurred. The noose became tighter about my neck, as I gathered my books and smoothed out my skirt before I prepared to return to Vince�s apartment. To drown in water or to drown in my own failures, I asked myself. The answer was of indifference.
Still trembling from the encounter, I knocked on Vince�s door. The door was always locked, although his mother was usually home, and, today, like most other days, she was watching her soap operas. In my arms, the books shook with my tremulous hands as I pressed their surfaces to my chest, but the movement was unwitting. I was still trapped in my pit of fear as she opened the door. Ironically, my mother, the one that assisted my father in forcing me away from home, never greeted me after school.
�Jesse?� she asked, sounding concerned about my whereabouts. However, I could merely nod, for my voice felt trapped in my throat, still caught in the coil of Mike�s snake-like fingers. The wrinkles on her brow deepened, but the rest of her face grew softer, as she put her fingers to her lips. Staying fixed on my books, her eyes became dark and cloudy, as if I were an image from the past, standing on her doorstep and asking for her to take me back into her memory. �Come inside.� Taking the books from my arms, she led me to the sofa, while the television continued to blare the pretentious troubles of overdrawn, melodramatic characters.
The rest of the room was still dead � the usual. The soiled beige floor blended into the bland-colored gray walls, and the static sounds from the television behaved like the turgid pulse of assembly-line machines � her movements mimicked their clatter. Only the light generated by the television was the breath in the room. Vince�s mother moved in exaggerated slow-motion � setting my books down, lighting a cigarette, and returning to the sofa to ask me about the incident. The paper of the cigarette burned slowly with her movements, and her words sounded like mechanical tones from a synthesizer, as if this had become routine in her monotonous, monochromatic life.
On the table, by the semi-kitchen of an oven and a table set up in the same main room, I noticed a pile of potato pancakes, piled high with sour cream. From the top of the mound, the cream melted and dripped down to the plate, like a spring that had just thawed after winter. A surplus of potatoes, and probably broth and butter as well, was what she purchased with part of Vince�s increased pay. The rest went to pay for the rent and the bills.
The grease on each pancake glistened in the drab room, and I tasted the sweet but salty butter in my mouth, as it blended in with the starched, dense texture of the potatoes. If only I could taste one, I thought, but I knew Vince�s mother � her maudlin visage staring in a concerned but saturnine manner at me � wanted to talk. And, by the increased velocity of the burning of her cigarette between her dry, taut lips, she was eager.
However, I was still a disheveled mess. My face was smeared with makeup and tears, creating a streaked pastiche of pinks, blacks, and purples that descended toward my chin, like a series of knives or inverted crucifixes. Still pungently fragrant of garbage and the sour odor of the street, my clothes were still in wrinkled disarray, and although I had stopped shaking, I continued to cry from fright. Mike�s image and caustic words were permanent in my thoughts. Glynis was, as well. And, the rose that seduced me was burning in a conflagration of its own superficial tendencies. From my lips, the familiar stutter resurfaced again, and the clouds of shame swept overhead. �I-I�m suh-sorry,� I murmured.
In an instant twist of contortion, her countenance lost its subtle softness and became coarse with worry. �About what?� she asked. �You didn�t do a thing. Why should you be sorry? You didn�t beat yourself up.� She paused for a second, with her cigarette halting its burning momentarily; its red glow of ashes at the tip in hiatus, before the smoke was released from her lungs. �Who did it?� Her voice became monotonous as the cigarette paper began to burn into a steady stream of ethereal smoke again.
�Who duh-d-did it?� I repeated, stuttering in my usual manner.
�Yes.�
My tears halted, as I searched for the most apt definition of Mike. Glynis� older brother? A fiend at school? My oppressor? He enjoyed physically and verbally pummeling me to the ground. An inept failure and a misogynistic homophobe. �Some guy fr-from school,� I muttered. �Duh-duh-duh-doesn�t-� the words eluded my tongue.
The expression upon her face gained a few shades of eagerness. What was I about to utter? Was it of any relevance or just an insignificant assumption like the thoughts circling through my head?
�He doesn�t think I�m a man,� I blurted out. A conjunction of the fact that I did not truly know Mike, especially on the level that I knew Glynis, and that I recognized him as a fiend in pursuit of humiliating me. The glare from the television in her pupils transformed into an expression of nostalgic longing.
�Vinny,� she mumbled, almost inaudible to the volume of the television. �My Vinny.�
In the room, my presence became nonexistent. My hair and clothes fabricated into those of Vince, during his turbulent years of adolescence. Her �boy� began to flesh out, as I disappeared into the woodwork as an insignificant intruder in their isolated lives. The characters in the soap opera turned mute, as well. To Vince�s mother, the depressed, former Russian immigrant with little knowledge of her homeland or present surrounding, the world practically became black and silent for a moment before the telephone rang.
As if wandering in a trance, she meandered to the telephone, on the table by the pile of potato pancakes. Slowly picking up the receiver, she mumbled, �Hello?� as soon as her lips were in its range. For a few more moments, the room became silent, aside from the television�s static sound.
�Vinny?� she asked, with her voice replete with fatigue. �You�ve got to come home.� She paused, and her face immediately appeared distraught. �Something happened.� Another pause. �You�re already coming home?� She paused again. �You really shouldn�t be taking part of the day off; we need the money. Why did Lawrence tell you to go home? Is he firing you, Vinny? Where else will you work? We can�t end up on the streets, you know.� Silence, on her end. �Honey, I was an immigrant; I can�t even read. Who will hire an illiterate Russian woman or her son? Vinny, you can only find work in this part of town without getting hurt-� Her voice suddenly became soft. �Vinny? Please, don�t go out. I need you at home. Jesse � Jesse�s very upset. Some kid did something horrible to him. How bad? His clothes smell of garbage and they�re badly wrinkled and dirty. He was crying, and he can�t talk without stuttering. I don�t know what to do. Vinny, I need you at home now. Can you be here in a few minutes?� She paused. �Vinny, where are you? A half hour isn�t that bad.� She stopped for a few seconds. �Goodbye, honey.� Then, she hanged up the phone.
The trance continued for a few more minutes, as I watched the changing patterns on the wall from the flickering television screen, like street lamps as they slowly light up the sidewalk but still create patches of extreme darkness and light on the ground. Staring down at the floor in the dark, I noticed that the light emitted by the television illuminated her back. She reminded me of a monolith beneath a flannel shroud or like a lone column in an ancient Greek ruin.
�What did the boy do to you?� The monotonous, placid tone of her voice cut like a razor blade through the grating static tones.
A picture flashed like a few images on a movie reel through my thoughts. In one shot, I stood against the decaying walls of the apartment building, being cornered by Mike into an awkward position. The following shot had a few blurred lines, characteristic of rapid, instantaneous movement caught on film, but one of Mike�s hands visibly lifted up the skirt of my dress, while the other held me pinned against the bricks; the makeup would only start to subtly smear in this shot. The next image depicted Mike�s horrified facial expression, practically powdered white by the imaginary makeup artists, as he realized what he could see through my tight pants. My own facial expression would picture the epitome of mortification. The picture�s mystery would be solved in this single shot � male or female, but gender-bending is not the supreme method of acceptance. The fourth shot is of Mike, as he furiously races down the alley, cursing and screaming threats, and the fifth shot shows the androgynous person lying on the pavement, with the garbage. The feature ends here, while the audience still remains confused about the purpose of the short film, and the star, a coward.
Slowly and meticulously, despite my stutter, I explicated the incident to Vince�s mother, as she became a tape recorder that was focused on every detail of my monologue. Intently, she listened carefully, and the nostalgic look left her face slowly, but horrification did not traverse her visage. Behind us, to cut through the mechanical existence, a key entered the door�s lock and was turned, until the door opened to reveal a haggard-looking Vince.
Usually straight and greasy, his hair appeared tangled and wind-blown as he walked through the door and unbuttoned his coat. From where I sat on the sofa, I observed him hanging up his coat and smoothing out his royal purple taffeta shirt and pastel-flower printed blouse; although Vince�s clothes appeared worn, Vince still looked radiant, mesmerizing me in a superficial sense. As he crossed the room to where his mother stood, his manner seemed neither timorous nor diffident but instead, he ambled with a casual air, as if he were no different than any woman from the street. Only his broad shoulders, padded breasts, and gaudy makeup gave him a slightly androgynous appearance and hinted at his discreet masculine birth.
But, he did not complete the walk across the room to his mother, who became a monolith again. Instead, he stopped in front of me, and my tears instantly halted their flow. Vince shed the mannequin status of beauty, as his lithe figure radiated in front of me. Aphrodite had set her feet on the soil of the Earth � more precisely, the carpet of a Russian immigrant�s cheap, gauche-furnished apartment � and captured every mortal by enrapturing him with her impeccable pulchritude. At this moment in time, the images of Mike and the rose disappeared. In fact, as I observed Vince�s stance, he became the rose, sprouted thorns on his palms, and tore away Mike�s skin and organs until Mike fatally bled. Once again, I recognized Vince as my savior, but not with prophetic status, in which he took the form of a guiding light to reveal some apparent �truths� of religious philosophies. Vince was my metaphorical door that opened itself to reveal a vaster horizon of existence to explore. The swelling inside of me that was analogous to the pre-explosion of a volcano was not of nausea this time as I gazed at Vince. In the recent past � more specifically, this past year � I recalled a discourse I had with Glynis over cups of coffee and doughnuts at the cafeteria after I was pummeled to the pavement with snowballs. As the mascara ran down my face, I remembered telling her of her apparent beauty. I doubt her hair is still dyed blue. A similar euphoric sensation swept over me as she denied her beauty, but I had to agree with her retort � whatever sardonic phrase she used as a reply. Glynis, to state the obvious, was my friend, my only companion; what a fabulous but masochistic being she was that grew to familiarize herself with me, to assimilate me into her life. But, she was not Vince, but not in a negative sense. Both had this �I don�t give a damn, I�m androgynous� manner as they sauntered down the street to the subway. However, Vince did not adorn himself with tattered jeans and flannel shirts, did not retort viciously, and did not despise every � perhaps heterosexual � female in the city.
Vince�s arms opened to embrace me, but I knew this moment was not going to be a clich�d scene from a saccharine-spiked emotional climax at the finale of a film. I drew myself into his comforting realm, and his scent filled my lungs � one thousand intoxicating roses. Each rhinestone on the hoped earrings that dangled from his ears illuminated the plastic components like lights in a glamorous store window. And, every detail of Vince became unveiled in front of my eyes; even his makeup had a distinct scent upon his pale skin. The abuse he endured revealed its sordid visage upon his clothes and his skid knees, which were slightly visible through his white stockings. The coarse texture of his shirt and the tired ruffles on his skirt cried out in pain. But, his face ignored them, and he stuck out his jaw with perseverance. This person possessed no fears; he would dance in the streets in his high heels to prove himself invincible.
�I can empathize, Jesse.� His voice resonated like a soothing lullaby in my ears. �Cry all you want, here; you�re safe.�
The nascent breath of relief flowed into my lungs; perhaps his perfume created this illusion. Upon my back, I felt his fragile hand pressing me closer to him, while another stroked my hair. His rouged cheeks brushed against mine, and I knew this security was no illusion. How I desired to cling to him as he protected me from the rest of the world. Another gaze as I inhaled, I noticed his mother left the room.
�Let�s go to my room.� The embrace finished. As he turned his back and headed toward his room, I followed him under a spell like magnetic attraction. From the warm sensation in my chest and the longing for Vince�s embrace, I nonchalantly figured that I had lot whatever hope I had about being a heterosexual. I was ready to empathize with Glynis but had to remain elusive about it.
In Vince�s room, I closed the door behind me, but Vince had already taken off his shoes and was stretched out on his bed. �I�ve told you about my experience in high school.� His voice had the mellifluous quality of syrup flowing with viscosity from a bottle, with a melancholy tinge lingering in the taste. �I�ve had to prove myself � a lot. I think I�ve told you about it a few times. I�ve had my skirt lifted a few times, and I cried in my mother�s embrace after every one. I was heckled in gym class, beat up in the bathroom, tortured in the cafeteria. And, no one did anything. In fact, some teachers found it amusing when I was mocked for my effeminate mannerisms in class by the other students. So basically, I had no one on my side. My mother, as you can see, isn�t much help, even back then. But, you must cry. How else are you going to alleviate your pain?�
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter rested on Vince�s bed, and he seized them hastily. For the past two days, I smoked no cigarettes, and the sight of them brought in my addiction again. However, Vince did not open his pack; the image made me itch with frustration.
�No, we really shouldn�t, should we?� he asked me.
I wanted to cry out, �Yes! Yes! We should!� but I dared not say what was on my mind. �No,� I replied morosely, as my stomach ached and screamed for the ambrosia. �We shouldn�t.�
Heeding to the suggestion, Vince tossed the pack of cigarettes to the floor, before turning toward me, with a complacent expression upon his face. Why was he so satiated? He was poor and twenty-six and still living with a reclusive mother and could not become a woman. And, thus, why did I envy him? I did not. Instead, I longed for him, like I longed for the unopened pack of cigarettes upon the floor.
�Now, what�s the use of teenage pain? You�ve got a whole life you can live outside the doors of a damn high school. I wish I thought of that when I was sixteen. Then again, at sixteen, I didn�t think.� Instantaneously, he embraced me again, and the pangs of my addiction subsided transitorily. �I don�t even think now,� he said, but his words sounded foreign. To be close to him, I thought, is more than I could want. Then again, I�ve never wanted much.
I didn�t want to cry; this moment was to be savored. But, I realized I thought too soon, since the movement became fast, and I was merely floating along with its current, hoping to miss the rapids before the waterfall. Vince held me in his arms, gazing into my eyes; I was a head shorter than he, and thus, I could only stare upward at him. But despite the fact I smelled of garbage, he said nothing. How could I complain? An amorous sensation swept over me, and I mumbled �Euphoria.�
�You want some euphoria?� he asked, but I didn�t even have a chance to reply before he kissed me upon the lips.
In those few seconds, Vince filled me with his scent. His clothes were suddenly not as coarse, and his hair wasn�t as greasy. In his eyes, I didn�t see myself staring. Flecks of brown and green encircled his dark pupils. And, unlike mine, his mascara didn�t drip down his cheeks. Then, as I closed my eyes, satiated, the finale came toward me like a drag race on a desolate road by a single, brash knock on the apartment�s door.
The embrace terminated, and Vince stiffly sat up from the bed, walking toward the window to peer outside. �Who the hell are these nuts? I sure as heck don�t have any money to pay them.�
I walked over to the window, standing behind Vince. �And people think I�m messed up,� Vince mumbled, and then, turned away to sit down on the bed again. I, however, still stood by the window to observe the irate couple outside. �Aren�t those the strangest con artists you�ve ever seen, Jesse? I bet they�re some religious zealots that think they can save me from whatever lack of faith I have.� He paused, before changing the subject. �You want to get ready for the movie?�
Evening was approaching, and a grayish blue haze seemed to have settled upon everything in the alley like an ominous shadow. The figures standing outside, knocking on Vince�s door, were of a portly man with oily skin and of a slim woman with gaudy, overdone hair and clothes that were far from being in style. Their faces seemed to be captured in the haze, but as I squinted with my face pressed up against the glass, I vaguely recognized their haggard features, and my skin grew cold with fright.
�You�ve got to hide me, Vince,� I asserted in a timorous, trembling voice. �Those are my parents outside. I-I huh-haven�t-t seen th-them in a muh-muh-mon-month.�
Sprawled across his bed, Vince instantly sat up in astonishment. �Parents?� he asked, both confused and inquisitive. �How�d they find you?�
�I have no idea.� Mike�s final words to me in the alley then crossed my mind, and nausea and fright then began to swell inside of me. �They kicked me out the night you found me by the park.� As I began to button my trench coat to the collar again, Vince indicated the closet. �Go hide in there, and I�ll go talk to them. All right?�
Hiding beneath Vince�s skirts and shirts, I soundlessly closed the closet door, as Vince left the room. Inside, the space was dark and was fragrant with cheap perfume, like a decaying image of Vince, but I had no time to mumble �Euphoria.� My palms were perspiring, and my heartbeat increased rapidly, in both pulse and sound, until I could hear its accelerated pulse in my ears. Wrapped in all of my fears and anxieties, I cried, lying in fetal position on the floor amongst Vince�s shoes, with my head between my knees. No one would take me away from Vince, I thought with puerile determination.
Vince�s mother was yelling at my parents. �There is no Jesse, here. Get out of my house!� she asserted repetitively.
They ignored her words. �Some boy told me Jesse is here!� bellowed my father, with his voice sounding more perturbed and irate than before. He was the one who told me to leave, I recollected with irony, and now he wants me back, for some bizarre reason.
�Leave us alone,� Vince sighed. �My mother and I are immigrants � can barely speak English.� He blatantly lied; Vince and his mother barely spoke a word of Russian.
�Goddamn faggot-liar,� my father yelled. My heart plummeted through my chest, as soon as I realized my schoolbooks were on the table by the potato pancakes.
�Those�re Jesse�s books on that table,� my mother intervened, and all scathing dialogue came to a silent halt. I was indeed caught in the rapids.
The air was broken by two sounds � a slap to someone�s face and a cry of intense pain. Vince�s voice moaned over the static from the television set, while his mother cried, �Vinny!� A body collapsed to the floor, and, in an hour, I would be home, lying prone and covertly crying on my bed. I was already prone into a casket � the water had drowned me.
My parents were brusquely bustling about Vince�s apartment, but no one spoke. Vince�s mother and he cried no longer, although a low moan, like the lament of a wounded soldier in battle, permeated the air. The tone resonated in my ears, as I lay on the floor of Vince�s closet, and wouldn�t leave my head.
No one listened to my wounded soldier. Blood dripped from his veins and across his uniform, spoiling the perfect blue material and brass buttons � a moribund revolutionary hero. I can remember, before the battle and his death, he held me in his arms, but the bayonet, slung on back of his shoulder, persuaded him to march into the massacre.
The sound persisted in my ears, like a monotonous pitch generated from an artificial source. Only when I picked up my mother�s razor to shave the hair from my legs in the bathtub at home did the sound subside into a dead, forgotten tone.