WILDCARD

[OVA version]

By Lana Smithee

Contents

1. Who Are You Again?
2. Your Photographic Memory [You are here]
3. From the Same Cloth
4. You Always Knew Just What To Say
5. Mirror Images

Chapter 2: Who are you again?

If you plotted photographs of my life by date you’d see some distinct eras. There’s the childhood era, mostly up in the attic of my parents’ house, I’m sure. Featuring such classic works as Boy Covered in Mud, and That Supid Cowboy Halloween Costume, predominantly taken on Dad’s fancy Nikon he brought back to the states after the war. You got the puberty era, characterized by the strange bigfoot-like creature appearing in the corner of group photos, a mix of 35mm film and polaroids. And with a tiny bit of overlap, we enter the modern, polaroids-only era. 

See, the labs that dot the landscape are mainly just there for the straight. You wouldn’t have seen Cary Grant and Randolph Scott getting their vacation pictures processed at the Moto Photo on Olympic between the coin laundry and the taqueria. If you were gay, or one of the girls, or whatever, and you were shooting your life on film, you were either developing it yourself or you knew somebody you could trust that did. Or, more likely, you just got an instant camera and skipped that whole headache. 

Fortunately, the year I got a polaroid camera for my birthday roughly coincided with the point in time where I started to be able to conceive of a me that I wanted photographed. At first, an agonizingly slow trickle of grungy, inexpert self-shots of grungy, inexpert crossdressing. And gradually, an increase of both frequency and quality as I learned makeup, put together some more natural outfits, moved to apartments with better lighting, and so on. In the early 80s, once I started taking hormones, there’d be a flood of photos of me and the clinic girls, punctuated by a sprinkling of pre- and post-op nudes. And then I moved out here and things slowed down again, save for a few self-shots, once again reduced to a strange bigfoot-like critter in the background of group photos. 

I still had a polaroid, and I still liked using it. But at the moment, I was mostly shooting less auspicious subjects. 

I flipped through Cindy’s batch of pictures for the umteenth time over breakfast in between inhaling a warm bowl of egg-over-rice and replying “I know, I know,” to Trixie’s exuberant meowing. Maybe it was a bizarre thing to notice, but I was sort of transfixed by the grain in the photos. They were all rendered in the sandy texture of 400 speed film, the kind you’d find in disposable cameras and basic rolls in any drugstore. 

It had been a few weeks since I got the package. The holiday season was drawing to a close. I caught up on some reading. Lum and Trixie conspired to topple the Christmas tree. I had to get Bubblegum’s transmission serviced and tried not to giggle when the mechanic referred to it as her “tranny.” Because you know, I’m her tranny. 

I’d started putting together a package to send back to Cindy. So far I’d gotten her a card with a picture of a bunny on it (she liked those), and a novel by a fantasy author she used to read (she pretended not to like those). I tried to pick out some snacks from the Chinese supermarket she might like. I’d missed the classical holiday season, but I thought I could still make it in time for the celebration that really mattered, and the one I knew Brad was sleeping on: the anniversary of when she started taking hormones. 

Of the clinic girls, Cindy was the only one I was still in touch with. You know how it is. Total stealth is the only true refuge available to the transsexual, and so we all dispersed across the country one by one as we got our nether regions rearranged. Of course, we all exchanged our new addresses with the intent to keep up as we left, but... life moves on. Well, I say that, but Cindy did a better job of it than I have. I still hear tidbits about a few of the girls through her sometimes. Even if I’m too sheepish to say hi, it’s nice to know some of us are still out there. Especially in times like these. Half the time when Cindy led in with “Hey, do you remember so and so?” or whatever, the update was an eulogy. I still miss Nelly a lot.

I felt a lump forming in my throat and tried to reorient my train of thought towards something less painful while I did the dishes. Today was New Year’s Eve. The plan was to handle some chores, take Bubblegum down to Newport and watch the sunset at the little beachfront amusement park, maybe grab something to eat, and hopefully be home before the cats got too mad at me and the roads got too dodgy. It’s funny how that changes, isn’t it? The me from 10 years ago would have many questions about my life, of course, but one of them would certainly be “how did you end up as such a square?” I dunno either, kid. The sickest part is that I actually like it. Or that’s what I tell myself anyway. 

Lum and Trixie hid under the bed as I vacuumed the carpet, as usual. As I did the bedroom I assured them that I wasn’t enjoying this either, but I’m not sure they got the message. With the cacophony over with, I put on some shadowing practice tapes I’d been working my way through while I gave the bathroom a once-over and tidied up the bookshelves.

 The tapes were okay. I’d seen them advertised a few times in a magazine I read and they sounded kind of neat. It was supposed to be a curriculum with more of a narrative focus, and the exercises traced out a simple little murder mystery story. I guess they had input along the line somewhere from an author I was vaguely aware of but hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. The problem was that the story was kind of cliche. I had the mystery figured out from the second lesson (it was the groundskeeper lady. She was doing a really obvious villainess voice from the word go) and the hackneyed forbidden love subplot between the protagonist guy and the ditzy lady who said「ありえない！」and「かしら」a lot was kind of getting on my nerves. 

“But that’s impossible!” said protagonist guy. 

“But that’s impossible,” I repeated, flatly, as I scraped down the toilet bowl.

Lum wandered over to check on what I was doing. She made a noise like mya~u and tilted her little head. 

“If only Minako had the key to the kitchen,” said ditzy lady.

“If only Minako had the key to the kitchen,” I repeated to Lum. I scratched behind her ears with my spare hand. 

“Then how is the key here on her dead body? Unbelievable!”

“Then how is the key here on her dead body? Unbelievable!”

Come on lady, use your head. Did you hear how groundskeeper lady sneered when she explained how she found the body?「ありえない！」じゃないのよ！

Lum did not understand the intricacies of my frustration. It’s fine, she always seemed like a Real Literature kind of girl, above all of this pulpy puzzle story nonsense. I made a note to keep an eye out for a Three Kingdoms themed tape series in the future. On the way out of the bathroom, I caught Trixie asleep in a sunbeam, and hurriedly grabbed the camera for a candid shot. 

I fed the cats, ate lunch, threw on a pair of jeans, a Miffy t-shirt I had borrowed from an ex and never got around to returning, and a multicolored windbreaker, and prepared myself for the long drive out of LA. I also rather optimistically wore my bikini underneath it all. Even in California, it was almost certainly going to be unpleasantly cold at the beach in December. But on the other hand, the novelty of having completely bikini-compatible parts hadn’t worn off yet, and if the opportunity arose I was gonna wear it.

I kissed Lum and Trixie goodbye and lugged my beach blanket, camera, and some other accouterments out to the car. The landlord had filled the courtyard with all these chintzy tiki sculptures and bird-of-paradise plants that I had to assume were cool back in the 50s or 60s or whenever, but several decades of wear and international air travel were starting to weaken the novelty of it. I mean, I dunno, I didn’t hate them. The tropical theming was a little goofy but it was a change of pace from the brick rowhouses and beige apartment buildings I’d been living in for most of my life. It got a little creepy though, if you came back late and a little tipsy. 

I loaded everything in the trunk and pulled out into the street. This part was always a tiny bit tricky because it turns out that large tiki sculptures and thick faux-tropical foliage make for poor driveway visibility. Part of it is my own fault too, Bubblegum is right hand drive, and that makes for some awkward viewing angles while backing out at the best of times. 

It’s really difficult to describe the city of Los Angeles on a clear day without using the term “sunbaked,” even in the winter, even with the persistent yellow haze of the smog. Other terms that were hard to avoid were “sprawling” and “congested,” which all tragically combined to form a cityscape that made driving anywhere a hassle, and getting anywhere any other way near impossible. 

Bubblegum was technically made for this kind of thing, but I could tell she yearned for the open desert roads and winding passes through the foothills we passed on the way out here. As a weird little imported hatchback she was maybe a bit unassuming as far as sports cars go, but her previous owner had had a turbocharger installed, as well as quite a bit of less flashy tinkering to improve balance and grip. I picked her up from an impound auction a bit before I left Baltimore for what was frankly a dream, even if she was way over budget once repairs were accounted for. And now she had a new life as some dorky office worker’s daily driver. Again, I’m sure her past self would have many of the same questions mine would. In any case, Bubblegum made even the stop and go of afternoon Little Tokyo feel natural and smooth.

Getting into and out of LA is the worst part of driving anywhere in the southwest. On the last day of the drive out here, I went from Las Vegas to the place I was staying in LA in about 5 hours, and two of those were spent crossing the city. One time I went to see a movie at a theater I thought would be about half an hour away (read: about 3 miles), and between the roadwork, opaque intersection design, and awful drivers, I missed the entire showing I had been aiming for (but made it in time for the next one). But other times you’d leave early to try and anticipate traffic and there would be none, and then you’d be someplace an hour early for no reason. Father time cursed mankind for our hubris building this city in the desert. 

To pass the time I put on a drama tape I’d picked up from one of the import shops in town. It was a tie-in to some long running romance show I’d never heard of, so it took a while to piece together the relationship chart in my brain, but most of the dialogue was parseable enough to me that it made for decent listening practice. Easier and more ethical than trying to eavesdrop on people in restaurants at least. Definitely a really lucky find. I’d love to actually watch the damn show someday. Maybe I’d finally find out whether Reiko got back at Sumire for inviting her to that dinner party she knew her ex Daisuke was going to be at. 

Once I escaped the city, the traffic mercifully let up somewhat. It became difficult to hear the tape over the churning of the engine, the chirping and sputtering of the turbocharger, the tie fighter screaming of rubber on asphalt. It was easy to resent the automobile from the bowels of the city, but in the end, I could never get enough of the feeling of piloting these mechanical creatures on the open road. And needless to say, Bubblegum was something special. I cranked the window down and let the cool air blast through my hair, and rested my elbow on the open frame. 

After spending too much time looking at nothing but asphalt and the rear ends of other people’s cars last year, I resolved to actually plan out a route that would get me on PCH for most of the trip this time around. The directions were scrawled on a sheet of legal paper taped to the dashboard. A mess of surface streets that resulted in the fewest sketchy left turns. 405 south. 710 south. Pacific Coast Highway. Another mess of surface streets meant to skip the ferry ride this time because I got seasick last year. 

In a state where the freeway is king, the PCH, with its regular stoplights and periodic pedestrian traffic, was a welcome change of pace. Though I think Bubblegum probably found it somewhat uninteresting in comparison to the 405. Well, we can’t all have what we want. The familiar mewling of the seagulls and scent of sea salt filled the air. Out the driver’s side window, the Pacific Ocean was plainly visible, a vast expanse of choppy blue extending over the horizon. Perhaps a small consolation prize for the unwieldiness of right hand drive. 

In the summer this strip would have been bustling with men and women and families in brightly colored swimsuits and sweat-darkened t-shirts crossing to the various beaches, but in December it seemed like mostly cyclists and locals walking their dogs, and even then, it was juuust cold enough that the native Californian would rather be indoors. As a New Hampshirite and lifelong Atlantic-coast-liver, the cold still sucked, but it was just another part of the beach experience. Even in the summer it was frigid half the time. 

Beach offerings in New Hampshire itself were pretty slim pickings. Usually we went to Hampton beach, although there was a seafood place Mom liked on the river by Salisbury beach, so we went there a few times. Hampton was okay. There was a boardwalk and some little hotels and stuff. The water was always cold enough to make your toes go numb. One time we went there, my younger brother Sam got me on the side of the head with a ball of packed sand and I cried and then Mom told me off. 

Honorable mention to Lake Winnipesaukee. Uncle Paul (Dad’s brother) rented out some cottage things there for a few summers. The water was always warm enough to spend significant time in, and clear enough that you could see through to the bottom some days. I actually liked it better than the beaches for a while, until my other younger brother Bobby told me about how our older cousin Mikey (Dad’s sister Theresa’s son) showed him a magazine article about parasitic worms that live in fresh water and crawl up your urethra. 

For big family vacations we stayed with my aunt Kathleen (Mom’s sister) near York beach up in Maine. The beach was fine, but the big draw was always her ancient and utterly bizarre house that must’ve been from pilgrim times, with things like hidden stairways to tiny rooms with no clear use, separate hot and cold faucets, and a mysterious odor that penetrated even the baked-in scent of tobacco smoke. One time we visited, my cousin Sarah (Kathleen’s daughter), with the help of my younger sister Robin, coerced me into putting on this ridiculous frilly dress her parents had gotten her. She poked fun at me for not actually resisting very much, but claimed it suited me better than her. I did resist when they tried to get me to go to dinner in it and do a curtsy, though. 

And then there was the wonderful disaster of Provincetown, down in Massachusetts. It’s a resort area way out on Cape Cod, there’s some beaches, a little fairground, some shopping districts, that kind of thing. One summer when I was a bit older, Mom convinced Uncle Paul (the other one. Her brother.) to get both families in the trailer and set ourselves up down there for a week or two. It was going great until we went to get dinner one of the first nights we were in town and a gaggle of transvestites a few tables down whistled at Dad, and Uncle Paul made a joke about trading up from Mom. The other kids giggled. Paul cackled. Over at the other table the girls were doubled over at their own joke. Naturally my parents didn’t think this was particularly funny, and we called the trip a wrap the next morning. But damn if I wasn’t some kinda awestruck all the way home. When I lived in Boston, I tagged along with another group’s P-town trip one spring and we ruined a few other families’ vacations in the same way. Good wholesome fun.

There was really nothing like it, y’know? The freedom of peeling off the gross boyish veneer I wore in my day to day life like a cartoon villain’s disguise, not just for a nice night to myself, or a one-off fling with somebody who would only feel naked regret by the end of the night, but a week-long retreat where I could be surrounded by other girls and feel something like normal. We went clubbing a couple nights, and there were some parties and events the club was running, but what really rewired my brain, I think, was the opportunity to live out boring day to day stuff as a girl, with the other girls. Living in the city you can find opportunities to go to clubs as a girl, see a movie as a girl, or even to get fucked as a girl, but it’s so furtive, transient. You’re nothing but a quivering shadow in the shape of a person. You’re finding refuge through dim lighting and staying quiet. But that trip made me feel real. 

I parked Bubblegum off the side of the road in a pretty lucky spot not too far from the beach, and fed the meter enough quarters to get me through the sunset, a bit over an hour by my estimation. The fading golden light of the winter sun glanced off Bubblegum’s windshield and glossy black coat, coagulating into little bright spots on each vertex of her hood. I tried to get a nice photo, but as usual the Polaroid paper lost a lot of detail in the darker end, and Bubblegum kind of looked like a blob of tar trapped in amber. It’s okay, I never looked that great in this kind of light either. Made all my split ends glow.

I made my way past the ferris wheel and through the associated dinky little fairground towards the beach, blanket and such haphazardly stuffed into a duffel bag slung across my back. Since I left New England, I’d visited many places like this, up and down the Mid-Atlantic, and more recently around Southern California, I guess hoping to recapture some of the magic I felt in P-town, so many years ago. But it was never there. The atmosphere lacked the momentary gap in the oppressive weight of social expectations that allowed the transvestite, the transsexual, the transgender woman to thrive openly. The air carried no hint of cheap floral perfume, no contagious cackling in voices trained or not, there was no joy in the escape from the shackles of masculinity and free experimentation with something higher, just the crushing mundanity of straight society. 

One summer after I moved to Baltimore, the one after Nelly got her vaginoplasty, she dragged her ex-wife Clara, Cindy and Wendy, Megumi, and me down to her beach house in Norfolk for a few days to celebrate her breaking in her new bikini. When we finally arrived, it was already pretty late, and we very quickly disposed of several bottles of wine. My memory of the night that followed was predictably hazy, though details remain with me. My head on Nelly’s chest, her fingers combing through my hair, feeling her giggle about some jab I made at the expense of a couple a few tables down at the diner we’d stopped at that evening. Cindy begging me to assess her developing chest despite starting the trip worried about what Brad might think about her going somewhere without him. The look in Meg’s deep, dark eyes from the edge of the bed as she tied her hair back into a long ponytail and took my old hardware into her mouth.

But for all the reverie in the shadows of the cabin itself, as we frantically made up for lost time and sleepovers not attended in our youths, when we finally overcame our hungover stupor the next afternoon and went to lunch, the light of the sun again dispelled it all. We piled into a nice U-shaped booth in the corner of a seafood place Clara swore beat the hell out of anywhere in Maryland, and I froze, having caught myself dangerously close to grasping for Meg’s hand in public. I had to excuse myself from the booth, head swimming, blood running cold, and hung myself over the railing on the balcony as the contents of my stomach evacuated into the murky Chesapeake bay. 

As I cleared the fairground and drew closer to the beach, the shockingly frigid wind coming in off the sea caught me off guard, and I zipped up my jacket and jammed my hands in my pockets. My ears started to sting a little. But piercing through the cold, the familiar, unmistakable scent of salty sea air purged my sinuses of any remaining LA smog. I crossed an empty cycling path and stooped down at the beginning of the beach proper to remove my sneakers and socks, and dug my toes into the cool, coarse sand. I squinted at the sudden bright light as I gazed out over the beach, to the pier stretching out high above the shoreline in the distance, and the ocean itself, now stained a rich purple by the orange light of the sun. 

I walked along the quiet shore a ways, picking up a few pieces of sea glass, a nice smooth rock, a sand dollar, a colorful spiral-shaped shell, and stuffed them in the pockets of my jacket. The freezing wet sand crunched under my feet. The rhythmic crashing of the waves echoed across the landscape. Eventually I picked a spot, piled up a small mound of sand to lean back on, and threw the blanket over the top. As I lay on the blanket, I watched the boats out at sea, the tiny barely distinct figures on the pier, the shapes formed by the foam receding from the sand, and the deepening color of the sky as the trials of the last year washed out to sea for good, to join all the years that had come before. 

After I made it home, I spent the three hours waiting for the calendar to roll over on the west coast after the ball dropped scrambling through the photo albums in the coffee table full of pictures from before, in Norfolk, in P-town, at the beach, in town, illuminated by blinding sun or flash bulb. Why wasn’t I in any of them? All of Meg’s candid shots, half of which featured me pulling a weird face and blinking, the dozens of awkward group photos Nelly pestered us all into taking every time we got together, missing. 

I tore through the TV console, the closets, the forgotten, yet unpacked boxes I’d crammed under the bed, anywhere I could think, in a panic. Had I left some secret album with myself in it behind in Baltimore? Did Meg take it when she moved out? Did I just never get copies from them? Was I ever truly there at all?

I slumped back down on the couch with a beer, and the cats slunk out of the shadows to check if the commotion had died down, and being satisfied with that, whether I was okay. Trixie tapped my thigh repeatedly with her forepaw, and I reached over and ran my free hand over her head and down her back. She started purring. Lum jumped up on the couch and tried to shove her out of the way so she could get in on the action, and I obliged her. 

When the clock struck midnight, I forced myself to acknowledge that I was still here, though in the back of my mind I still had my doubts. I set the camera on the edge of the kitchen counter, pointed it at the barstool I always favored, and set the timer. I slumped forward, elbow on the cool laminate surface propping up my head, and made an expression halfway between a grimace and a smile. The flash caught me off guard, and I blinked. But at least when I went to bed there was one photo of me in the damn house.