Cross Dressing (8 page)

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.

S
cott 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.

D
an 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.”

“I’m sorry.” Dan had never engaged in any S&M, so he wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you going to spank me?”

“You’re going to get exactly what a bad boy deserves,” Beverly said. “And it’s going to be so hot.” Beverly opened her cosmetics case. She reached in and removed a pair of shiny chrome handcuffs and some rope. Dan swallowed hard. He
was ready to submit or dominate or get on his knees and bark like a Norwegian elkhound, whatever she asked.

A moment later, Dan’s legs were spread-eagle, tied to the bedposts. Beverly climbed onto the bed and stood over Dan, straddling him. She walked slowly toward his head. “Do you like what you see?” Dan looked.
My God, she’s not wearing panties.
Premature ejaculation became a legitimate concern. Beverly lowered herself until she was squatting warm on Dan’s chest. “Give me your hands,” she said.

A moment later, Dan was secured to the headboard, watching excitedly as Beverly pulled a tube of some sort of cream or lubrication from the cosmetics case. He couldn’t wait to see what it was. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Bad boys don’t get to watch.”

Dan complied. He wondered how long he could hold out. The air filled with the scent of mint. Dan assumed it was a flavored lubricant of some sort and was eager for its application.

Beverly stroked the inside of Dan’s thighs. “This is going to be so hot,” she repeated.

Dan believed her with all his heart and soul. He began to tingle when Beverly took him gently in her hands. She massaged the cream onto his third leg and then, with a feathery touch, his balls. Dan could now die a happy man.

“Now,” Beverly said. “Aren’t you sorry you stood me up?”

Uh oh
, Dan thought. Something was wrong with that tone of voice. His eyes popped open as Beverly climbed off the bed. He saw her screwing the top back onto a tube of Ben-Gay. “This is going to be so hot,” she said with a smirk.

Dan immediately realized he’d been the victim of a classic bait-and-switch ad. At first he apologized. Then he begged. Finally he tried bribery, but Beverly wasn’t interested. She picked up the cosmetics case, then gestured at Dan’s hot yet withering apparatus. “Oh, by the way,” she mocked, “less is less.”

Dan whimpered when he heard the apartment door close behind her.
I did not think a girl could be so cruel.

Michael returned a few hours later with no intentions of looking in on his brother. However, the cries for help were too urgent and literal to ignore. He entered the room and saw Dan lying there, his most prominent feature a sweaty look of disappointment. Dan held his head up and looked at Michael. “Forgive me, Father, for I tried to sin.” When Michael stopped laughing he untied his brother and eventually managed to pick the lock on the handcuffs.

“I’d give you some penance,” Michael said, “but I suspect it would be redundant.”

I
t took her a while, but Sister Peg eventually found the man she was looking for. He was in downtown Los Angeles, hidden deep within the federal office complex that housed the various divisions of the California Department of Agriculture.

Sister Peg had an appointment with a Mr. Churchill who was the assistant to the Deputy Associate Commissioner under the Deputy Director of the Division of Operations, Planning, and Management within the Office of Regulatory Affairs and Strategic Initiatives for the Division of Economic Policies and Implementation. Mr. Churchill was in his late fifties and was going with the whole Larry King look. He wore a crisp blue shirt, braided leather suspenders, and a red and gold power tie. The black frames of his wildly oversized glasses had a clownish effect in the way they eclipsed his face and magnified his eyes. The fish-eyed bureaucrat was doing his best to be patient as Sister Peg once again asked for an explanation. “But if the cheese is just sitting there, why can’t you give some to the poor?”