Into the Flames
Thirsty Work — Chapter 18: how women are made
Two young women from California travel to New Orleans in search of redemption after the death of their mother. Carolee thinks she will show her little sister the world, but what they find in the barrooms of the French Quarter at Mardi Gras is more than she knows how to handle, or could have imagined back home. This is the eighteenth chapter of the novel Thirsty Work.
When I awoke sometime later I found the flat was full of sleeping people, including several squeezed together on the bed, Howard among them. He was snoring loudly and had his shirt off. There didn’t look to be enough room for me, but I knew I could make a spot for myself if I tried. I pulled off my clunky cowboy boots before tiptoeing across the floor. Then I furrowed in between Howard and Peter, edging the one aside and pulling an arm up of the other so I could lay my head against his warm, hairless chest.
Stretched out on the bed, enveloped by live human bodies, smelling Howard’s skin and feeling Howard’s breath and knowing no one watched me or judged, I felt happier than I’d felt since October — since the day Mom had told me that she was dying while folding Daddy’s white shirts in their bedroom, holding the collar against her neck with her chin, crossing the sleeves against her belly, folding the top over the bottom and smoothing it flat on the bed.
I pushed the image of Mom out of my mind and concentrated on the happiness I was feeling. I closed my eyes and urged on the feeling, guiding it through my feet and up my legs and butt, groin and belly. I felt it spreading through my chest, my back, my shoulders, and the nape of my neck. When it had finally filled the whole of my head, I opened my eyes in amazement. And there, on Howard’s nipple, just two inches from my nose, stood a small and perfect fly, rubbing its tiny stick hands together. He was unaware of my presence. It seemed the whole world was at rest. I watched as it finished washing, put its hands down gently, and walked very slowly around Howard’s nipple, placing one tiny, black stick leg in front of the other, keeping carefully to the dark red perimeter of the areola, avoiding the creamy smoothness of the chest. When it completed the circuit, I thought I would die of pleasure. I prayed to a God I no longer believed in that the moment would never end.
Sometime later I awoke again to an almost empty bed this time and a quietly stirring apartment. Stan breathed loudly on the far corner of the mattress, emitting a strong odor of sweat and beer, but most everyone else was awake and getting ready for the evening. Sharon sat on the edge of her mattress pulling on shoes, Doug walked past me to have a cigarette out on the front stoop, Cathy emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head. Tessa preened in front of the mirror. I found Howard across the room, buttoning up a soft, old shirt with wide black and gray stripes over his smooth chest. The sight of his bare skin brought back the image of tiny fly feet on his nipple gave me a rush. Howard’s smell suddenly filled my nostrils. “There you are,” I murmured in a voice laced with honey. I held his gaze as I stretched my arms languorously over my head and then back behind my neck, arching my back slightly. I saw his eyes move to the tiny buttons on the front of my gauzy white shirt and I felt pleased and powerful. “What’s up?” I asked.
“We’re getting ready to go out and find something to eat,” he said, stirred, but not overcome by my unspoken invitation. He held to his spot across the room; didn’t respond to my beckoning gaze. “Why don’t you roll out of that bed and come with us?”
“I have a better idea,” I said, voice full of meaning. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me, waiting, but didn’t bite.
Wanting to avoid a rejection, I tried changing my bait. “Why don’t I cook up that spaghetti I bought yesterday? There’s lettuce for salad and French bread that’s going to go bad if we don’t eat it.”
“That sounds good,” he grinned, then gave me a broad wink as he passed by my outstretched body to join the others smoking and talking on the front stoop.
In the kitchen I found two packages of spaghetti and four cans of sauce and laid them out on the table. I put a big pot of water on the stove to boil. In the fridge were the carrots and onions and celery and garlic I had purchased, which I laid out on the table and began to chop. I saw a cockroach scurry by on the floor; but I decided to ignore it. I melted some butter and olive oil together in the black cast iron frying pan Cathy and I had brought all the way from Stockton. I put the small bits of chopped vegetables in the pan and stirred them around with a wooden spoon. I opened the cans of tomato sauce and checked the water to see if it was ready to boil. The pan began to emit a delicious odor, and I felt proud to be bringing the smell of home cooking to the squalid flat.
“That smells good,” Stan said as he passed through to the bathroom. He wasn’t the only one awakened by the smell. Just as the pan began to sizzle, an army of cockroaches began pouring out of the cupboards and scuttling frantically back and forth across the floor, searching desperately for the source of the smells. My presence didn’t frighten them. It had no effect on them at all. A few hurried up the wall behind the stove and, driven into a frenzy, leaped straight onto the hot stove, trying to get closer to the food.
“Omigod!” I shrieked, throwing lids on the pots to protect them from suicidal cockroaches before running out of the kitchen. “Look at this!” Two or three people came running to look.
“Oh Jesus. Fuck. That’s disgusting,” said Sharon.
“The whole kitchen’s infested,” Tessa said, aghast. “Everybody run! Run for your lives!”
“Look at the size of those buggers,” Doug said with perverse admiration.
“I guess the poison didn’t work,” said Cathy. “You better forget cooking, Carolee.”
If it had been a day earlier, I would have gladly abandoned the project and never set foot in that horrible kitchen again. But now I felt tough; I thought I was experienced; and I wanted to impress Howard with my domestic prowess. And I was hungry. I knew the spaghetti wouldn’t take long to cook.
“No. That’s all right. I’ll cook it,” I said. Cathy looked at me, astonished. “It’s almost finished.”
“Well, okay…If you really want to.”
The others had already left the doorway and headed back to the front stoop. I heard laughter in the distance and the notes of a guitar. Cathy looked over her shoulder at the group on the stoop, then back at me with sympathy. “I’m going to go out front for a beer and a cigarette,” she said.
“OK. This will just take a minute. Go ahead.”
After she left, I opened the back door for some ventilation. Maybe a little stale night air would dilute the smell of garlic and calm the starving cockroaches down. Maybe some of them would seek food elsewhere, like in the big garbage cans out back. A minute later, the woman who had greeted us when we first got to town appeared in the doorway. “Well, will you look at that,” she said with an air of amazement. “What a pretty picture. I haven’t seen anybody cook in this kitchen for years.”
I laughed and invited her in. I was glad to have some company in the kitchen. Everyone but me seemed to be on the front stoop.
“I’m Terri,” she reminded me. “And you’re Carolee, right?”
“Yes that’s right. I remember you. Do you want to stay for dinner? It’s almost ready and there’s going to be tons.”
“Thanks honey,” she gave me a big, warm smile. “But I can’t stay. I have to get ready for work.” Despite her objection, she didn’t make a move to leave. She leaned her tall body against the door. Even at a slight angle, the top of her head nearly reached the top of the door frame.
“You do?” I said with regret. I wanted company. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and the continued activity on the linoleum was giving me the creeps. “Where do you work?”
She gave a smile that brought a huge dimple to one cheek. She looked at me sideways, sizing me up. “I’m a prostitute,” she said finally. Then she watched with amusement as my eyes widened and my hand froze mid-stir.
“Oh honey,” she said in a soothing voice, just as if I’d stubbed my toe or bitten my tongue. “Didn’t you know that?” she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head forward. “We ALL are, in this complex. Except you guys, of course.”
“You ALL are?”
She nodded her head. “Of course we are.” Now I felt foolish, as if I was the only one in the whole world who didn’t know a prostitute when she saw one. Of course they were prostitutes. Didn’t they dress outrageously? Didn’t they leave and come home at all hours of the night? I’d thought they were in some kind of show business, worked at one of the lounges that lined Bourbon Street. But I’d been naive. “Me and Chris upstairs, and Jody and Erica out back, we’re all in the business,” Terri continued, gesturing overhead and then across a little courtyard to the “slave quarters” where two other women lived.
I realized with surprise that she wasn’t acting ashamed or embarrassed about her profession. I asked politely if she liked her work.
“It’s okay. I can’t say I really enjoy it. At least not most nights,” she laughed. “But the money’s good. Real good. So I keep at it. I’m going to quit when I have enough money saved up for my operation.”
For the second time in two minutes, I froze. “Your operation?” I felt suddenly sympathetic. Now I understood why she did what she did. I thought of all the Shirley Temple movies I’d seen where the bad guy turned out to be a good guy driven to crime by unfortunate circumstances. I thought about my mother in the hospital, thin and distant, surrounded by clear, plastic tubing and shiny, cold chrome. “Are you sick?”
“Oh no,” she laughed heartily, shocking and relieving me at the same time. “I’m not sick — although some people might think so… No, I’m saving up for a sex change operation.”
This time the spoon clattered to the floor. Six cockroaches were instantly on it. “Jesus!” I shouted at the spoon, picking it up with two fingers and flinging it out the back door. Howard and Stan had drifted back into the small kitchen. Tessa and Sharon crowded together in the door. I wondered if they had heard Terri’s confession or were just checking on dinner. Then I noticed that everyone was waiting and watching. I realized it was my turn to speak.
“What do you mean, a sex change operation? Do you mean that you are going to become a man?”
This time when Terri laughed I could see that she was enjoying my discomfort. “No, no baby,” she said slowly. “I mean that I’m going to become a woman.”
Stan shuffled his feet. Howard visibly stiffened. Sharon stared without speaking. Tessa grinned. I could almost hear my brain creaking and churning, endeavoring to process this information without blowing a fuse.
“A woman? But you already are a woman.” She wore bright red lipstick and a low-cut top that showed off massive breasts. The room seemed to vibrate with my words.
“Not really,” Terri gave a theatrical sigh and looked around the room for sympathy. “None of the people in this complex were born women. We just look like we were.” The women in the room all looked dumbfounded. Stan and Howard wouldn’t meet her eye.
“But you have…I mean your…” I held my hands up in front of my chest, cupping imaginary breasts. I tried not to notice Howard frowning at me.
“Oh, that’s just silicon,” Terri said lightly. “Anyone could have breasts like these. I’ve got implants in my breasts and collagen in my cheeks and lips and I take hormones to keep my voice high and to keep the hair from growing on my chin.”
The information was becoming overwhelming. I looked at the other people in the room for support. But I could see that nobody else was going to speak. I had started the conversation, and I was going to have to finish it. I also could see that Howard didn’t approve of what was unfolding. He stood stiffly with both arms folded over his chest.
I took a new spoon from the drawer and resumed stirring the spaghetti. I considered keeping my mouth shut and letting the conversation die an unnatural death. But even as I considered, I knew I wouldn’t do it. This was the first time I’d ever met anyone like Terri. And if I went home to Stockton after Mardi Gras (if?!?), it would probably be the last time, too. I felt a vast curiosity welling up within me. I couldn’t miss this opportunity. Who was Terri? How did she manage to shed her history? Could she really recreate herself? Would bad things happen to her if she did?
Now I saw Doug and Peter crowd behind Tessa and Sharon in the doorway; Cathy and Carl had squeezed into the room and stood together near Howard and Stan in the corner. The tiny kitchen was packed. Terri and I weren’t having a conversation. We were putting on a performance. I thought the intense interest was probably a good thing. The other people must have questions, too.
“But how can you be a prostitute if you’re a man? Don’t your customers notice your…well, you know,” I gestured to my crotch. “…your penis?”
“No, they don’t,” Terri said, tossing the long blonde hair out of her face. “Usually they’re too drunk to care. I prefer the drunk ones; because then I can take their wallets,” her smile was harder now. “But if they’re sober, I just tell them I have an infection and they’ll have to fuck me up the ass. Most men would rather ass fuck anyway.”
I felt something bitter rise in my throat. The room seemed suddenly too hot and close. But I had started the ball rolling, and now I couldn’t stop it. It was barreling down a steep hill and heading for a crash that I, no doubt, was going to be held responsible for after Terri went back home. Still, I didn’t drop the questioning. I felt compelled to bring it to some kind of conclusion. It seemed that if I wanted to get to the end of this conversation, I was going to have to pass through the scary middle.
“But what about your…” I hesitated. No one moved in to supply the missing word. “Well…what about your penis? Don’t they see it?”
Terri frowned and shook her head, tapping her finger on the table. “I just pull it up between my legs. It’s very small.”
It seemed everyone in the room was staring hard at Terri, trying to see the man beneath the makeup and the big breasts. Now I noticed that her chin was very square and her shoulders quite broad. Still, I couldn’t imagine what she’d look like as a man. Her transformation was much too close to complete. I looked for an Adam’s apple on her bright white throat, but couldn’t see one.
“Don’t you believe me?” she tossed her head up and looked directly at me, a challenge.
I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t say that,” I said, feeling threatened. “It’s not that I don’t believe YOU. It’s just that this whole thing is pretty hard to believe.”
“I guess I’ll just have to show you.” Terri said with an exaggerated sigh. My head snapped to Howard’s. He glared at me Tessa hooted in laughter, “All right! A performance!” Terri was standing up and walking past me to the bathroom before I had a chance to respond.
“But Terri wait…You don’t have to…”
“It’s no big deal to show you my little weenie, honey,” she winked at me before closing the door to the bathroom. “I’m a whore.”
The people in the tiny kitchen stood dumbfounded. “I’m not staying for this,” Howard muttered. But he stayed rooted to his spot in the corner. The whole room seemed paralyzed with morbid interest, like a crowd of nervous gawkers at a car wreck.
“This will be different,” smiled Peter.
“More power to her,” Tessa said.
“Pretty freaky, if you ask me,” Carl said, shaking his head.
Just then Terri came out of the bathroom, naked from the waist down except for a pair of black high heeled shoes. She took small, mincing steps. All eyes were glued to her pubic area. I saw with an mixture of distrust and relief that there was no penis there — just the usual triangle of brown, curly hair. But then, as we watched in amazement, Terri reached between her legs and pulled out a small, withered penis. Peter groaned. Howard turned his head.
“This is sick,” Howard said. “I’m leaving.” This time he really did walk out the door.
“I’m with you,” Carl echoed and followed Howard.
Terri stood in the center of the kitchen, naked from the waist down, her tiny penis dangling between her legs like a forgotten Christmas tree ornament, and I could see her eyes glisten with the sparest of tears. No one else moved to leave. No one moved to speak, either. All the women were still present, and Doug and Peter and Stan. But the atmosphere had changed from almost comic to grim.
“Do you want to see my breasts?” Terri asked with a forced cheerfulness. She spoke directly to me, ignoring the other people in the room. “They did a really good job on my breasts,” she boasted. She spread her lips wide and started to laugh, but ended up coughing fiercely instead, doubling over at the waist, her white-blonde hair falling over her face, almost brushing the tops of her shiny high heels on the dirty linoleum floor.
“Are you O.K.?” I asked, reaching toward her, but not touching.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” she answered. But when she straightened up again, her cheeks were flushed red and black line of mascara ran down the side of her face.
“You wanna see them?” she asked softly, almost pleading.
“Well sure,” I said, looking around the room for support. No one met my gaze.
Terri pulled off her shirt and revealed two of the most magnificent breasts I had ever seen. The whole room seemed to let out a collective sigh of uneasy admiration. Stan whistled between his teeth. Tessa murmured “wow.” I nodded my head in agreement with Terri’s assessment — they had done a good job on her breasts.
Terri’s breasts were big and high and firm and voluptuous, creating a natural cleavage without the benefit of a push-up bra, big swells of creamy flesh tipped by tiny pink nipples. In the back of my mind I knew they were a plastic surgeon’s fantasy — a man’s image of the perfect pair of tits — but that didn’t negate their apparent perfection. Terri’s whole body, in fact, was practically perfect, closely resembling the feminine ideal I’d seen on countless billboards and covers of glossy magazines. She had long legs with slender thighs; a small, well-muscled butt; a completely flat stomach and narrow hips. She had big breasts and high cheekbones and full, pouting lips. She was tall. She was sexy. Both soft and strong. She’d be a perfect candidate for the Miss America pageant if it weren’t for the small, withered penis hanging from the middle of her pubic hair, not much bigger than my thumb and not nearly as useful. I understood why she wanted it removed.
“Well,” she looked around happily at our awestruck faces, redeemed by the beauty of her magnificent breasts. “I have to go and get ready for work now.” She went back into the bathroom and came out a minute later, completely dressed. “Hope you enjoyed the show,” she smiled at me as she went out the back door. “Maybe I can come back for dinner another time.”
A minute passed before anyone moved.
“That was crazy,” Sharon finally said.
“That was surprising,” said Peter.
“She was really beautiful,” I said. Everyone in the room turned to look at me. I felt accusation in their stares.
“She has a perfect body,” I said, defensively. “Isn’t that ironic?” No one said they agreed. “But I sure can understand why she wants that penis removed.”
Long seconds of silence.
“She was a freak,” said Doug as he walked out of the kitchen.
“What a sideshow,” Sharon agreed.
“Great set of tits though,” Tessa said, smiling at me before she tumbled after Sharon and Doug.
After they filed out, I was left alone with my uncomfortable feelings, the tiny tapping of cockroach feet on the linoleum, and the still-good cooking smells. I lowered the long sticks of pasta into the boiling water, stirred the red bubbling sauce, cut open the loaf of french bread and smeared it with butter and garlic while holding the bread in mid-air.
I lit the oven, pulled out the broiler tray, and placed the soft, open loaves on it’s hard, blue-black surface. Before I managed to close the oven door a dozen cockroaches ran into the flames.
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