Cross Dressing (9 page)

Mr. Churchill let out a sigh to let the nun know she was testing his forbearance. “Because if we give the cheese away,
the people who get it for free won’t need to buy any, and that would undermine the purpose of the price-support program, wouldn’t it?”

“But I’m talking about people who don’t have any money,” she said patiently. “So they couldn’t buy the cheese even if they wanted to, which they do, but they can’t because they’re poor. Do you understand my point?”

Mr. Churchill ran into this sort of thinking all the time and it made him absolutely crazy. He didn’t know why the general public was so ignorant of basic economic principles. But he didn’t seem to be making any headway with words alone, so he decided to use a visual aid. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a clean sheet of graph paper and a black marker, then he drew a large
L
on the page. He pointed at the graph. “This horizontal axis represents Tons of Cheese Demanded,” he said. “This vertical axis represents the Price of Cheese, okay?” Mr. Churchill then drew two parallel sloping lines within the graph which he labeled RR and YY, for no obvious reason. “Now, a rise in consumer income shifts the demand curve this way, so RR becomes YY.” He pointed at the outer sloping line. “In other words, at any given price, assuming a growth in income, consumers will demand more cheese because they can afford more. Now, since we don’t have control over consumer income, we’re forced to artificially decrease cheese supply which has the effect of making the existing cheese demand higher, relatively speaking, thus maintaining the necessary price of the goods.” He handed the graph to Sister Peg. “Now, does that answer your question?”

Sister Peg laid the graph on Mr. Churchill’s desk and gestured for the black marker. Mr. Churchill handed it to her. “Let me see if I understand,” she said as she drew a graph of her own. “This axis represents Income and this axis represents Tons of Cheese. Now, if income is here”—Sister Peg drew a line indicating an income of zero—“and there’s this amount of
cheese”—she drew a line indicating lots of cheese—“what does this represent?” She made a tiny black dot on the graph.

Mr. Churchill looked at the tiny dot and shrugged. “You tell me,” he said.

“That’s your heart, Mr. Churchill. Of course, it’s enlarged somewhat so you can actually see the damn thing.”

Well, this was just the sort of abuse up with which 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 did not have to put. Mr. Churchill narrowed his eyes. “Sister, perhaps a little economic disincentive will motivate these people of yours to go out and get jobs. Then they can eat all the cheese they want.”

Sister Peg thought back over the past ten minutes or so and concluded that she had shown all the restraint the situation warranted, so she lunged for Mr. Churchill and grabbed his red and gold tie. She pulled him halfway across his desk and looked into his shallow eyes. “You’re a heartless piece of shit,” she said, accurately. Sister Peg then took the black marker and drew a bold little Hitleresque mustache on the bureaucratic cheese nazi. “Now, are you going to help me or what?”

“Christ Almighty!” Mr. Churchill said. “Let me go!”

Sister Peg pulled tighter. “Give me some disincentive,” she hissed. Sister Peg had strong feelings about the equitable distribution of wealth, even if it was in the form of cheese. She believed the notion of noblesse oblige extended to the government and was more than happy to help persuade others to share in her beliefs.

Mr. Churchill couldn’t believe it. This lunatic nun had come in off the street blaming him for her constituency’s meager income bracket as though market forces and pure economic
theory and policy could be burdened by things like compassion.

“I’m waiting,” Sister Peg said, doubling her grip on the power tie.

Like a bad dog pulling against a choke chain, Mr. Churchill tried to get away from the righteous and enthusiastic sister. But his struggling just made things worse. He labored to get a breath so he could speak. He finally managed to get the words out. “Just let me make a call … see what I can do.”

Sister Peg let go, sending Churchill crashing back into his chair. She smiled across the desk. “Bless you,” she said.

Mr. Churchill backed away from his desk as he loosened the noose from around his neck. He grabbed a tissue and smeared the little Hitler mustache into a lopsided Groucho Marx affair. “Does the Church know how you operate?” he asked between gasps.

“No, they say they’re not their sister’s keeper.”

Mr. Churchill got on the phone and mumbled something to someone before hanging up. “Help’s on the way,” he said. And in no time at all two security guards arrived, as if this were the sort of thing they had to do rather frequently. They escorted Sister Peg from the maze of cubicles where Mr. Churchill committed his acts of policy and they deposited her on the dirty sidewalk outside the building. Somewhere in the tussle on the way out, one of the guards had broken her rosary. He tossed it at her feet before going back into the building.

Sister Peg made a mental note to say some prayers for Mr. Churchill that night, then she changed her mind. She figured God had more important things to worry about than a little dickhead who wouldn’t share his food with the poor. She gathered her stray rosary beads and thought about what to do next. And then she received her inspiration. She marched over to a pay phone on the sidewalk and searched herself for change.
She had none. She stopped a man who was passing by. “Excuse me, could you loan me a quarter?”

The man looked at her. “Why should I loan you a quarter?”

Sister Peg leaned into his face and screamed, “Because I’m a nun! Now, give me a goddamn quarter!”

And lo, the man gave her a quarter. And with the quarter, Sister Peg made a call. “Hi, Josie. It’s me, Peg. I got a favor to ask.”

T
he people at the San Fernando Free Clinic couldn’t have been nicer. No one asked for proof of income or insurance coverage; they simply took Father Michael at his word and sent him in to see the doctor. Fifteen minutes later Father Michael was in the examination room waiting for the diagnosis.

The doctor came in and apologized. He said he had no idea what was wrong with Father Michael. “Unless you’ve been ingesting strychnine,” he said, adding something about antagonized glycine. “I suggest you go to County Med Center.”

So he went. It was a madhouse of bloody gunshot victims, impoverished pregnant women surrounded by multitudes of sick children, and people on the fringe of show business who didn’t earn enough to buy medical insurance. Armed guards were stationed by the doors in case gang bangers dropped by to finish off someone they had only wounded in a drive-by. Children were screaming, ringing phones went unanswered, low moans drifted out from the trauma slots in the nearby ER, and the paging system never stopped calling for doctors to answer codes red and blue.

In the midst of all this, Father Michael leaned toward the admitting window, trying to hear the nurse through the tiny slot in the bulletproof glass. The nurse was looking at his
application. “So you worked in exchange for an all-expense-paid trip to Africa plus food and lodging?”

“Well, no,” Father Michael said, rubbing his stiff jaw. “I think that mischaracterizes—”

The nurse shook her head. “See, that counts as income, which you failed to report here.” She pointed at line twenty-three (g) on the form. “That means you don’t qualify for public-assistance treatment at this facility. Sorry. Next!”

Father Michael managed an understanding smile as he slipped away from the window. He wandered over to the waiting area and dropped into a hard plastic chair. He needed to sit for a minute and gather himself. He had another spasm, this one severe enough to obstruct his upper airway for a moment. He was sick and he knew it. Where would he turn now? He would have gone to the Church for help except that nasty bit of business with Cardinal Cooper back in Africa precluded that option. It seemed to Father Michael that those who were willing to help were unable, and those able were unwilling. He bent over trying to diminish the pain. He was in bad shape and, worst of all, he realized Dan was his only hope.

W
ILLY HAD BEEN A SECURITY GUARD FOR NEARLY A YEAR
, but it seemed like an eternity. Night after night watching a small black-and-white TV, interrupted only by the routine of checking the locks on the warehouse doors. Willy occasionally prayed that something would happen to break the monotony—a fire, a terrorist attack, anything.

So when a tall blonde in an impossibly short, clingy skirt emerged from the darkness as he was making his rounds one night, Willy silently thanked the Lord. The blonde was carrying something in a plastic grocery sack. “Hey,” she said, still twenty yards away. “I need some help.”

“What’s the problem?” Willy asked. He moved closer to the gate to get a better look at the damsel’s two distress signals.

“I was on my way to a party and my car broke down,” she said. “Can you believe it?” Quite frankly, Willy couldn’t. He figured the girl was in her twenties. Looked like a tall size six. Real tall, he thought, and bouncy. “Do you have a phone I could use?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Willy said. “No problem.”

“Great!” The blonde giggled. She seemed a little drunk.

And that got Willy to thinking. He slipped off his wedding ring while taking the big key chain off his belt. No need to let a thin band of gold stand between little Willy and a tall, drunk blonde. When he saw that she wasn’t wearing a bra, he started
to feel lucky. “This is a bad neighborhood for a breakdown,” Willy said. “Good thing I was here, huh?” Willy opened the gate and let her in.

“This is sooo sweet of you.” She tossed her hair from one side to the other.

Willy made small talk as he led her to the security office.

She flashed a grateful smile as she dialed. Then she scooted up on top of the desk, giving Willy a reminder of Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct.
He just wished he had a pause button. The bouncy blonde got someone on the phone, arranged for a ride, then hung up. “My friend’ll be here in about thirty minutes. Mind if I just hang here?” She hopped off the desk and looked around the office for a minute, letting Willy’s imagination run wild. “Hey, would you like a beer?” She pointed at the grocery sack.

“Well, I’m on duty,” he said. “But … okay, maybe one.” He pulled a couple of the sixteen-ounce cans from the sack and opened one for each of them. “My name’s Willy, what’s yours?”

“Josie,” she said. “Like
Josie and the Pussycats.
Remember that show?” She sang the opening line of the theme song and did a little dance right there in front of Willy.

Man, is she bouncy.
Willy drained his beer and went back for another. In no time at all he was feeling handsome despite the fact that he was known as Toad-boy in high school. “So who’s throwing the party?” he asked. He turned the TV off and turned on the radio.

“I dunno,” Josie said. “Just some people. I didn’t really wanna go, I was just kinda bored.” She gave Willy a once-over. “You know, you remind me of somebody.” She looked into his eyes long enough to take control. “I just can’t think of who it is.” Then, after a minute she smiled and pointed at him. “I know! One of those Baldwins. Do you do like modeling during the day or something?”

Willy broke into a thirty-two-ounce smile. “Yeah, you know, I’ve thought about doing that, but I’m too busy.” He opened a third can and waved it around the office. “I gotta find some time to look into that.” After another gulp of beer Willy started telling Josie lies about the dangers of his job and all the rough characters he had subdued.

“You have a gun?” Josie asked.

“Don’t really need one,” Willy said with a wink. “I got a pretty big nightstick.”

“Oh yeah?” Josie licked her lips. “You wanna show me?”

A minute later Willy was leading Josie deep into the refrigerated warehouse, through long corridors of endless crates marked “Cheese.” Willy was out of uniform in record time, and while his nightstick wasn’t as grand as advertised, Willy was going to try to make up for that with enthusiasm.

The chill of the warehouse made Josie’s nipples hard as a wedge of Romano. In the course of her career, Josie had had sex in a lot of places, but it was safe to say this was the first time she had done it while leaning against a large block of cheddar. But Josie was a professional, so despite the fact that she was cold and surrounded by curds of soured milk, she did and said all the right things. “Oh baby,” she moaned. “Just like that. Give it to me. Yeah, oh yeah. Ohhh!” She glanced at her nails behind Willy’s back.

Willy, meanwhile, was doing yeoman’s work, and after several minutes his eyelids started to flutter. “Here we go,” he said. “Hold on to something, baby.” Willy shifted into high gear. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh—”

“Hello!” The voice came from behind Willy, startling him, to say the least. He stopped midstroke and prayed that Josie was a ventriloquist. “Excuse me,” the voice said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Willy spun around and saw a nun standing there with a camera. “Say ‘Cheese’!” she said. FLASH!

Willy was horrified. First of all, he’d been caught screwing on the job. Second, he’d been caught by a nun, of all things. And finally, the nun had a camera and wasn’t afraid to use it. Sister Peg moved to one side. “How about a profile shot?” FLASH!

“What the hell—” Willy’s nightstick softened like Brie in a microwave.

FLASH! Sister Peg took another. “How about the full monty?” Sister Peg said, zooming in on her target.

“Hey! Stop it!” Willy made an aggressive move toward Sister Peg. That’s when Ruben stepped from the shadows, brandishing a large gun. He fired into a crate of Monterey Jack which exploded behind Willy. Willy stopped cold and put his hands straight up in the air. “What the hell is going on?”

Josie slipped back into her skirt. She hopped onto the block of cheddar as she made introductions. “Willy, this is Sister Peg and Ruben. Peg, Ruben, this is Willy.”