The Agony of Bun O'Keefe

by Heather T. Smith

  I was confused. “How can you be speechless when you just said a whole bunch of words?”

  He wiped his eyes. “You’re a friggin’ riot, Bun O’Keefe.”

  As far as I knew a riot was a violent, chaotic situation. I wished I had a dictionary to see if there was an alternate entry.

  “I’d never seen a man dressed as a woman before,” I said. “Not until that Divine video. I felt bad for her at first, ’cause she wasn’t doing a very good job. Her lipstick was way outside the lines and you could tell she was wearing a wig. But last night, your lipstick was perfect and your hair was so straight it looked like you ironed it.”

  He fluttered his eyelashes at me. “Why thank you, Bun. It’s nice to know that somebody appreciates the artistry of the drag queen. Most people think we’re from another planet.”

  “Well those people aren’t very smart. There’s no evidence of life on other planets.”

  “No, my darling, what I mean is, they think we’re different, like strange alien beings.”

  “And being different is enough to not like someone?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “If strange alien beings did exist, they might have something to teach us humans. But then we’d never know, would we? Not if people didn’t bother to get to know them. Is that sad?”

  I asked ’cause I wasn’t sure. But Chris didn’t answer. I guess he was too speechless to say he was speechless.

  —

  Busker Boy said he had to run errands so I spent the morning with Chris. We hung out in his room, which I liked ’cause it had a canopy bed, and I said, “Wow, you’re like a queen,” and he said, “You got that right, honey.” He had licorice in his bedside table and he said, “Let’s rot our teeth,” and even though I didn’t want cavities I ate six ropes. He told me he performed at a place called Priscilla’s and he showed me all his gowns.

  “Want a sneak peek of my new number?”

  “Okay.”

  He was singing “Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves” when Big Eyes walked in with a shopping bag. “I’m supposed to give you this.”

  I pulled out seven pairs of Wonder Woman underwear with matching undershirts, two long-sleeved shirts, a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, a bottle of Suave shampoo with Smurfette on the label and five pairs of socks.

  Chris rubbed a shirt sleeve between his fingers. “Polyester. Pffft. He’s got the face of a model but he knows nothing about fashion.”

  Big Eyes passed me a small paper bag. “And these.”

  I remembered the song from the commercial. “All the good times, all the growing, all the laughter and the tears, these are the Stayfree years.”

  I passed them back. “I don’t need these.”

  “Well maybe not right this minute, ducky,” said Chris, “but you wouldn’t want to be caught out.”

  “Caught out where?”

  Busker Boy appeared in the doorway. I waved the sanitary napkins at him. “I don’t need these.”

  I had heard the expression “A deer in the headlights” before but could never quite picture it. Till now.

  “I didn’t know you were here. I just came for the hairdryer.”

  “Underoos?” said Chris. “She’s not five.”

  “They come in size twelve to fourteen so I figured they were okay.”

  “I don’t care what size they come in. Have you seen the commercials? They’re for kids.”

  “She is a kid.”

  “How can you say that? You just bought her Stayfree!”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” said Big Eyes. “Everyone likes Wonder Woman, right, Bun?”

  Busker Boy rubbed his temples like he was an Advil commercial. “Can I just have the hairdryer? I don’t want to deal with this.”

  “Deal with what?” I asked.

  “Girl issues.”

  “What’s wrong with girl issues?”

  “They’re embarrassing.”

  “For who?”

  Chris leaned back on his pillow, his eyes moving back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. I tossed the package to Busker Boy. “Maybe you can get a refund.”

  He tossed them back. “Keep them. You’ll need them.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because, you know, cycles…and stuff.”

  “I don’t have cycles…and stuff.”

  “Can I say something?” said Chris. “This is officially the best conversation ever.”

  “Wait now,” said Big Eyes. “You haven’t had a period yet?”

  “I thought I had one once. When I was twelve. My Merck Manual said another one would come in twenty-eight days. It never did.”

  “You owned a Merck Manual?” said Chris.

  “Twelfth edition.”

  “That’s not bleepin’ normal,” said Big Eyes.

  I couldn’t see why. “How is reading a medical encyclopedia abnormal?”

  “Not the book, the disappearing period.”

  “I told my mother about it. She said I should be happy and to stop complaining.”

  “Wait now,” said Busker Boy. “Let’s rewind.”

  He did that too?

  “What do you mean, not normal?” he asked Big Eyes.

  Big Eyes leaned into him and whispered, “She could have a bleepin’ tumor on her bleepin’ thyroid.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “And they call me a drama queen.”

  I touched my neck ’cause I knew that’s where the thyroid is. “I never considered a tumor,” I said. “I just figured I was born without a uterus.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” said Chris. “If you had a period, you have a friggin’ uterus.”

  “I said I thought I had a period. Looking back, I probably imagined it ’cause I’d just read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. That girl was obsessed with periods.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Big Eyes. “No bleepin’ uterus?”

  Busker Boy’s eyes were wide. “Is that even possible?”

  “Yup. I looked it up. No uterus, no Stayfree.”

  “Someone needs to get this girl to the bleepin’ doctor. ASAP.”

  Chris pulled my hand off my neck. “Go get dressed, Bun.”

  “Wait,” said Busker Boy. “She doesn’t have a health card and—”

  “I’m not taking her to the bloody doctor.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shopping. Polyester? Please.”

  —

  He bought me a pair of jeans at the Avalon Mall. “Jordache. Can you feel the difference?”

  “Between what?”

  “Those and your old ones.”

  I couldn’t so I said so.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about quality, my ducky.”

  We walked past a jewelry store. “Want your ears pierced?”

  “No.”

  We walked past a salon. “Want your nails done?”

  “No.”

  “Hair?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything you’d like?”

  “A dictionary.”

  “Good God. Anything else?”

  “Something warm.”

  “Like what?”

  “A sweater.”

  “You’re too practical, Bun O’Keefe.”

  “I’m not practical, I’m cold.”

  “How cold?”

  “Freezing.”

  “All the time?”

  “All the time.”

  He stared at me for a moment.

  “Fine. We’ll get a sweatshirt. But I’m choosing it.”

  It was oversized and said “Frankie Says Relax.”

  The bus home was a different number. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere I don’t want to go.”

  “Then why are we going?”

  He put his arm around me. “Because I like you, Bun O’Keefe. That’s why.”

  The street sign said Winter Place and the houses were big. Chris stood in front of a white one with black trim and took a deep breath. Th
e bell was a melody. The Westminster Chimes. It was the same tune used in George Harrison’s “Ding Dong, Ding Dong” that we had on eight-track at home.

  The door opened.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  The floors were dark wood and shiny. We sat on a loveseat in a sunny room. Dad paced in front of us.

  “Haven’t seen you in months. And now this. You’re not sick, are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then what do you need? Money?”

  “Advice.”

  “I gave you advice years ago: get a girlfriend.”

  Chris stood up. “This was a mistake.”

  “If you’re a drag queen,” I asked, “and you have a girlfriend, does that make you a lesbian?”

  Dad had big, bushy eyebrows that covered his eyes when he frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Bun O’Keefe.”

  “No. I mean. Who are you?”

  “She’s a friend,” said Chris.

  “She’s very young.”

  “Yes,” said Chris. “Vulnerable too.”

  “She’s not pregnant, is she?”

  I said, “You can’t get pregnant without a uterus.”

  Dad frowned at me. “You don’t have a uterus?”

  “Do me a favor, Bun,” said Chris. “Stop talking.”

  “Well?” said Dad. “What’s the problem?”

  “She’s fourteen,” said Chris. “Suffers from amenorrhea. I’m not sure why.”

  Dad looked me up and down. “Slightly delayed pubertal development. But I wouldn’t worry. Not till she’s sixteen.”

  “She thinks she had a period once. Two years ago.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “So you’re thinking secondary amenorrhea?”

  Chris nodded. “She’s cold all the time. Pale too.”

  Dad leaned over and pulled my bottom eyelid down. He sat next to me on the loveseat. “How’s your diet?”

  “I’m not on one.”

  He looked at Chris. “Saucy little thing, isn’t she?”

  “He means do you eat well,” said Chris. “You know, healthy food? Fruit and veg?”

  There had been a Canada’s Food Guide magnet on the fridge at home. I had tried to convince myself that a handful of Cheezies was a serving of dairy and a mouthful of Cherry Coke was a fruit.

  “Well?” said Dad. “How is your diet?”

  My mother didn’t follow the guide at all. The last thing I wanted was to be like her.

  I said, “The meat and alternative category was pretty easy. Two servings a day. I could make a can of Vienna sausages last three days. Except there were seven in a tin. The last one was half a serving so I just threw it out.”

  Dad looked at Chris. “What is she rambling about?”

  “The Canada Food Guide by the sounds of it.”

  “I found it in a bag of old shoes,” I said. “There was a sun on it, smiling and licking its lips. There was a chicken and a fish with their heads still on. It said, ‘Eat a variety of foods from each group every day,’ but my mother said, ‘What are we? Hippies?’ ”

  “So what did you eat?” asked Dad.

  “Saltines, mostly.”

  “That’s not very healthy,” said Chris.

  “Yeah, but they’re a bread product. I’d have them with Kraft Singles. That’s two food groups in one snack.”

  Dad and Chris looked at each other.

  I said, “I read this quote once, ‘One should eat to live, not live to eat.’ If that’s true, then my mother’s been doing it wrong, and I’ve been doing it right.”

  Chris looked confused. “Your mother lived to eat saltines and crappy cheese?”

  “No. She ate doughnuts and chips and fast food burgers.”

  “And you didn’t?” asked Dad.

  “I tried not to,” I said. “They’re not on the guide.”

  Dad turned to face me. “You’re an odd little thing, aren’t you?”

  He took my wrist in his hand and looked to the ceiling. He looked in my eyes and my ears and my throat. He listened to my heart.

  “So,” said Chris. “What do you think?”

  “Take her home and fatten her up. She’s as thin as a rail. Low body fat is often the culprit in these cases. Get some iron supplements too. No need for further exploration. Not at this stage.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a spirometer in your office? She has a wheeze.”

  Dad left the room and came back with a machine. He told me to take a big breath and blow it out into a tube. After a few tries he said, “Asthmatic. Take her to a clinic. They’ll prescribe her an inhaler.”

  “I can’t,” said Chris. “She’s kind of under the radar right now.”

  Dad said, “You’re going to get yourself into a whole heap of trouble.”

  “You make it sound like I’m harboring a fugitive.”

  “You are.”

  “She’s not a criminal.”

  “But she’s a runaway.”

  “I’m not a runaway,” I said. “She told me to leave.”

  Chris stood up. “Time to go, Bun.”

  Dad walked us to the door.

  “You still have what it takes, Christopher. It’s not too late to make your mother proud.”

  “Good-bye, Dad.”

  —

  On the bus ride home I said, “How do you make dead people proud?”

  “Good God, Bun. What are you going on about now?”

  “He said, ‘It’s not too late to make your mother proud.’ But your mother’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw a silver urn over the fireplace that said Rest in Peace. I figured it was your mother’s ashes.”

  “Well done, Sherlock.”

  “Well? How do you make a dead person proud?”

  “I guess you just try to be the best person you can be as a tribute to them.”

  “Oh. Well in that case, she’s already proud. You’re one of the best people I know.”

  “She’s not proud, Bun. And she never will be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she died of disappointment.”

  “She did?”

  “Yup. And nothing I do will ever change that.”

  “Oh, well. She’s dead now so I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Gee, Bun. You really know how to cheer a guy up.”

  I pointed out the window. “Look, the sign on that church says, You Can’t Stop, Drop and Roll in Hell.”

  Chris laughed. “I’d better bring my fire extinguisher.”

  Busker Boy and Pop Girl were in my (his) bed when I got home.

  “Jesus,” said Busker Boy, pulling up the covers. “You scared me.”

  I showed them my new sweatshirt and jeans.

  Busker Boy said, “Nice.” Pop Girl said, “Can you leave now?”

  “Give us a few minutes, okay, Bun?”

  “Chris took me to see his father and I think they’re going to make my period start.”

  Busker Boy’s forehead crinkled. “What?”

  “He bought me iron pills too. ’Cause my iron is low. He can tell you all about it. Want me to get him?”

  “No,” said Pop Girl. “Just go.”

  So I did. I sat outside the door with the dictionary Chris had bought me and went to the r’s. Riot: someone or something that is very funny. Funny was better than violent, I supposed.

  I flipped to the s’s. Special: different from what is normal or usual; unusual in a good way.

  I hoped that if Busker Boy’s definition of special was “unusual,” he’d add “in a good way” too.

  —

  I got tired of waiting for Busker Boy and Pop Girl to finish whatever it was they were doing so I went to the living room. Cher was doing her makeup and Big Eyes was spiking Chef’s Mohawk.

  “Have fun shopping at the mall?” asked Chef.

  “No.”

  Cher snorted. “That’s the last ti
me I take you anywhere.”

  “I had a good time,” I said. “But not ’cause of the shopping.”

  “What’s wrong with shopping?” asked Big Eyes.

  I sunk into the beanbag chair. “Everything.”

  Cher waved her mascara wand at me. “If shopping is wrong, my ducky, then I don’t want to be right.”

  Big Eyes laughed. “Me neither.”

  “All my mother did was shop. She took me with her once. It was boring.”

  I hated being squashed in her rickety old wagon surrounded by junk. She only took me ’cause my dad left and I was too young to be left home alone. I started hiding when she was getting ready to leave. She’d look for me for a bit, but eventually she’d just go without me. Sometimes, while she was gone, I got scared. Like the time there was thunder that sounded like bombs. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t there. I’d have hid in the attic anyway.

  Busker Boy joined the rest of us in the living room. Pop Girl hung off him the way baby orangutans hang off their mothers except her feet touched the ground.

  Cher zipped up her makeup bag. “Good. Everyone’s here.”

  She filled them in on our visit to Winter Place. She told them about the iron and the low body fat and said, “Basically, what this girl needs is some TLC.”

  Big Eyes smiled at me. “I think we can manage that.”

  Chef said he’d come up with some iron-rich recipes.

  Pop Girl said, “What’s the big deal? Aren’t some girls just late bloomers?” and Cher said, “And where did you get your PhD? My father got his at McGill.”

  “She’s only asking,” said Busker Boy.

  Pop Girl gave me a look that gave me a pang.

  Cher said she had to go or she’d be late for work. “One more thing, we need to keep the dust level down in this house. She’s got asthma.”

  “What do you mean, asthma?” asked Busker Boy.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” said Cher, as she slipped into her heels. “It’s a common condition. She’ll live.”

  I was glad to hear that.

  As Cher passed, Busker Boy grabbed her hand. “Thanks. Going to your dad’s couldn’t have been easy.”

  Cher stooped down and put her cheek out. “Plant one there and we’re even.”

  Busker Boy laughed and gave her a kiss.

  Before Cher left I said, “Are you still going to take me places?”

  “What are you talking about, my ducky?”

  “You said today was the last time.”