The Bigot
"There's only three things I hate more than niggers," said my husband's old schoolmate, "and that's Orientals, short people, and freaks." He looked at me, and realized I was an Asian—or "Oriental." "Well, Oriental men. The ladies are OK, I guess."
I looked at him. Being barely 5'3", I wondered if he considered me "short."
He seemed to read my mind. "A woman under five foot is short. Whenever I get one that small, it feels like a kid." A couple of people in the small restaurant looked at him. "Not that I know what a kid feels like."
He ordered another beer. I couldn't wait to hear what he had to say about freaks. I didn't have to. "Now as for freaks—faggots, trans-cross—whatever they're called. Well," he paused for a moment, "you should be happy with what you got born with."
My husband had told me that John was outspoken, often too outspoken for his own good. He had scars on his face, along with a bent nose, to prove it. "Dick," he said to my husband, "I know a hell of a lot more than you ever think I'll know. I've got it all up here," he assured us, pointing at his temple.
I excused myself to the ladies' room. I was wearing a light-blue blouse and floral-print skirt, along with black boots. I pulled up the skirt and petticoats I had on underneath and sat on the toilet. Since becoming a woman (or, as John would have put it—had he known—a "freak"), the only thing I ever wished I could undo was losing my penis. Going to a public restroom was the worst. I felt sorry for women who came into one of these places wearing pantyhose; I just wore knee-highs so that I wouldn't have to undress to take a pee.
I pulled up my panties, stood up and let my skirt and petticoats fall back into place before stepping out of the stall. I washed my hands and returned to the table where John and my husband were talking to some teenagers. "And I don't like your attitude!" said one of the teenagers, a pimple-faced boy of about sixteen or seventeen.
"Get outta here! You're too young for this!" said John. He looked at me. "Sorry 'bout the ruckus, ma'am. It happens all the time."
"I should imagine," I said. I looked at Dick, who had been in the army but usually tried to avoid trouble.
"Ya think he's a freak?" John asked suddenly.
"I wouldn't know," said Dick, even though he probably did. He knew more about the kids in town than he'd ever admit.
"He's a—she's probably a girl. If I were a girl that damn ugly, I'd try to pass myself off as a boy, too."
I sat down next to Dick, who put his arm around my shoulder. I snuggled closer.
"Where does John live?" I asked my husband, after John had left.
"Townsend," said Dick. "It's about an hour's drive from here."
"Isn't he married?" I recalled hearing something about a friend of my husband who lived in Townsend. The friend was married to a much younger woman, hardly more than a girl. Maybe that was the "kid" he'd had sex with. Of course, he denied ever having sex with a kid.
My husband scratched his chin. "Yes, and his wife's expecting a kid. I think it's due in September." That was three months off.
"Perhaps we should visit them, make sure his wife's ok." I was worried about her. I didn't think John would be a very good husband—or father.
"I dunno. John keeps to himself," Dick said. "He's not one to like 'havin' company.'"
"Well, if his wife's expecting, she oughta have a baby shower," I said.
My husband brought a couple of my girlfriends and me to John's single-wide trailer in a run-down part of Townsend. He had convinced John that a shower was something that women did together when one of them was pregnant to make sure they didn't have to worry about diapers and stuff when the kid was born. John wasn't happy about the prospect, until Dick assured him the men wouldn't be expected to stay. They went out for a few beers while my friends and I met Cynthia, his young wife. She was stuck in an easy chair, so we did some house cleaning and fixed her a light lunch. "Is it gonna be hard?" she wailed.
"Pardon?" I asked.
"I think she means when she has the baby," Marie, one of my friends said. "It wasn't for me. I was glad to get it over with, and he was glad to come out."
"Well," said Denise, my other friend, "I've had three, and none of them was a picnic."
"The doctors and nurses will be helpful," Marie said. "I was scared at first, but once my water broke—"
"Huh?" said Cynthia.
"It happens shortly before the baby's born. Perfectly natural. Necessary, in fact." Denise tried to calm her down.
"You said it's not a picnic."
"No, but if you know what's going on, it's a lot less stressful."
"Cynthia, I don't mean to pry," I said, "but have you been seeing a doctor during this pregnancy?"
"Only a couple of times. John doesn't want me going to the doctor's unless I'm sick."
"Really?" said Denise. "Going to the doctor is what keeps you from getting sick when you're going to have a baby."
"Well, maybe we'd better see about getting you some prenatal care before it gets too late," I said. "There are a number of services that help pregnant women free of charge or for a very small fee."
Cynthia looked scared, but I reassured her that this would make things a little easier for her.
A couple of weeks later, Marie and I took Cynthia to an obstetrician who dealt with cases like hers. We had convinced John that it would actually save him a lot of money in the long run in case there were any problems. In fact, it would prevent costly problems from happening. He had complained that back in the day, people didn't need hospitals and doctors and such do deliver kids. I asked him if he'd ever delivered a baby. He admitted he hadn't; the sight of blood still freaked him out, despite his army experiences.
"What are you doing?" John asked me as I started sprinkling some powder onto the window sills of his and his wife's bedroom.
"Oh," I said, "this will relax Cynthia. You'll smell it for only a few minutes." He took a whiff and went out and sat down to watch TV. After Cynthia had gotten back from the doctor, all she wanted to do was sit in her recliner.
"Who's gonna fix my dinner?" John barked, seeing that his wife was too tired to cook for him.
"We'll fix some fried chicken and dumplings," Marie said. John gave us a dirty look, but calmed down with the smell of chicken. Cynthia didn't each much, but John enjoyed his meal.
It was a few weeks later when Marie and I visited John and Cynthia again. Cynthia was pretty well filled out, and unable to get out of bed. John wasn't there when we arrived, so I sprinkled some more powder around the house. When Cynthia asked what I was doing, I told it was to calm her and her husband down. The baby, I said, would be better without too much stress in his parents' lives.
When John got in, I noticed he looked a bit cleaner than he had in the past. He was also a little shorter. His voice had a noticeably higher pitch, but was still masculine. The powder was working. John didn't seem to notice anything different, however. Perhaps it was just as well.
Denise, Marie and I went to see Cynthia the day the doctor had said the baby was due. She was having contractions, and I immediately started timing them. "OK," I said, as a contraction began, "it's time." We drove Cynthia to the hospital, and pulled up to the emergency entrance just as another contraction began. John was nowhere to be seen, either at home or at the hospital.
After Cynthia had the baby, and we determined that she and the little one were well, we went back to her house to prepare it for her return. It wasn't very clean, so we vacuumed and scrubbed just about everything we could find. I sprayed one last bit of powder in her bedroom "to prepare it for the mother and baby," or so I told Denise and Marie. It was, in fact, really for John.
An Asian woman in a a white T-shirt and calf-length denim skirt greeted us when we brought Cynthia and the baby home from the hospital. I looked at her and knew the powders had completely transformed John into the three things he said he despised most: a short person, an Oriental, and a transsexual "freak." I had been charitable and not transformed him into a half-black, half-Asian transsexual. On the other hand, he was still genetically male; I could have even altered his DNA to make him genetically female if I'd wanted to. I did make sure that "John" (or Joan, as he would now be called) could only wear women's clothing, however.
"How did you do this . . . thing to me?" Joan asked when we were alone.
"Well, Joan—"
"Don't call me that! My name is John—"
"People named John don't wear skirts," I reminded her.
"You son of a—"
"Watch the language, Joan. You don't want to be a bad influence on the baby!" I smiled.
"I'll get you for this." Joan was still a lot like John.
"Do you want me to make you half-black?" I asked.
"You wouldn't dare . . ."
"Oh, but wouldn't I? Look what I've dared to do to you so far. All this has been rather easy, I'm afraid," I said. "I could also totally sissify and feminize you, but the baby probably does need a 'daddy.'"
"Don't even think of it."
"Cross me up again, and I'll think of putting you in lacy dresses with fluffy petticoats peeking out whenever you stand up, sit down, or take a step. Yes, a half-Asian, half-African body would also look good on you." I looked over Joan's (mostly) female body and laughed. Yes, she'd make a very good mix. But for now, I let her be.
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© 2009 Paige S.