The Good Guys

by Francis Gideon

  "Hey, someone is there. I'm just not sure who."

  "Well, I think right now you should focus on becoming this wonderful hobo-chic look." She dabbed her fingers into a small jar and began to rub its contents onto his face. The texture was rough, grainy almost. Oliver peered into his reflection.

  "What are you doing? Is that… coffee grounds?"

  "Only the best. Come on, it will give you the appearance of stubble."

  "I have stubble."

  "But you shave whenever you can, just so you can feel what it's like."

  Oliver grinned. He had shaved that morning, after allowing his stubble to accumulate for days. He had not been on testosterone long enough to grow a full beard, but he was determined to get there. "Don't tell me you don't do the same with your legs, Lydia."

  Lydia smiled again. "Okay, then. I won't say anything."

  Oliver laughed. He allowed Lydia get in extra close as she put another layer of coffee grounds onto his chin. They still felt warm and smelled strong, as if the pot had just been made. He watched in the mirror, utterly fascinated, as his own masculinity—mostly made by Axe body spray and Old Navy collared shirts—was replaced with this new form of exaggerated appearance. It made Oliver think of Shakespeare's times, where men would play women. For certain plays, like The Merchant of Venice and Twelfth Night, there would be men playing women playing men. It was dizzying. Now Oliver was just trying to be normal. He and Lydia both knew at the end of the day, their goal was to be boring. They wanted to blend into the crowd, maybe share some opinions on trans issues online, but mostly forget about those therapy sessions that used to dominate their lives. It was why Oliver spent so much time online, talking to strangers on the internet. Anonymity was relaxing.

  "How does that look?" Lydia asked as she stepped away.

  "Good. Thanks."

  "Sweetheart," Lydia said, cocking her eyebrow. "You didn't even glance. And quite frankly, you look ridiculous."

  Oliver peered at his reflection. The coffee grounds on his face, along with the bags under his eyes that Lydia had added, made him look like a caricature. "Okay, you're right. But I have to trust you, Lydia. It's why I'm here."

  "I'm the expert, I know. But I'm also your friend. So I ask again: what's on your mind?"

  "Nothing. I'm fine. Why does something always have to be on my mind?"

  "Because I know that look and I've known you too long. But that's fine, cool. I'm not your mother. You don't need to tell me everything that goes on with you."

  "I don't even tell my mom everything that goes on with me." He crossed his arms over his chest, ruffling the smock he had on his body a little. He laughed, but it was weaker this time. Oliver was the youngest in his family of five. His mother was too busy helping his older sister with her kids to worry about her youngest child away at university, acting in plays and changing his gender. "My mom still hasn't written an email using my new name. She kind of avoids it. I don't know how often she thinks she can say, 'hey… you' without me getting suspicious."

  "Tough," Lydia said. Her voice was harsh and static, not her usual jovial and playful self. Her parents were dead. They had died before she transitioned. "But the family story is old news, O. We all know that it's a shitty time for most of us. You're not an outlier and this has hardly been a new problem for you."

  "I never said I was. I just… don't want to talk about it."

  Lydia grinned. "I was teasing you. But your excessive guilt means that whatever secret you are keeping from me is a good one."

  Oliver furrowed his brows. He felt some of the coffee grounds flake off. "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because you feel bad—not indignant or self-righteous—about your deflection to your family as the issue. You have good news, but you're keeping it close because you worry about jinxing it. Like a superstition. I'm tempted to break this mirror to just watch you squirm. Or maybe I should just mention Mac—"

  "No," Oliver said, leaning forward and grabbing at Lydia's hand. "Don't say that! It's the Scottish play! You know this. You've worked in theatre longer than I have."

  "But, I'm not an actor. Moreover, I know you, Oliver. Even if you try to deny it."

  He sighed. When she used his full name, things were serious. He did sort of want to tell someone about the cute boy he had met. It was fun, exciting, even to be in a gay relationship. But also terrifying, since many cis gay men still had a major issue with gay trans men. Many—Oliver included—never got bottom surgery to reconstruct a penis. It was too painful and too expensive, but that often meant that gay men shied away from trans men's bodies, since it was unfamiliar territory.

  "You know me," Oliver said. "I like a guy, but I tend to prefer my relationships online."

  "Or in a play. How is the kissing scene coming?"

  "There is no kissing scene in Waiting for Godot."

  "There should be. Vladimir and Estragon… Damn, instead of waiting for a man that never comes—the old story—why not just bone your best friend? Screw Godot. I'm not waiting for anyone that makes me late. Love the one you're with."

  Oliver laughed. "If that was the case, the play would be over in fifteen minutes and then we would be out of a production. Taylor wants to keep things authentic or something. I don't even know."

  "Neither do I, sweetheart. Neither do I."

  People behind them moved in and out of the backstage door, grabbing some props. There was some noise, distracting Lydia for a moment. For a play that was so sparse and involved so few people, there was a lot of ruckus around them to make sure everything went right.

  "Anyway," Oliver said. "I like my relationships online or in a play. Both of those relationships have distance to them. I can't get easily hurt that way. That is important."

  "Oh, you poor wounded boy. You need to get over it. Love allows you to open up to new experiences."

  "I hate that expression—'opening up.' It sounds like surgery. I don't want to open up. I'm already way too open."

  Lydia smirked at him from inside the mirror. She rested her hands on his shoulders and met his eyes in a strong gaze. "I know, sweetheart, trust me. It's hard dating someone in the cis population. Tell me: guy or girl?"

  "How do you know they're cis?"

  "Long shot. Only a ninety-nine percent chance." She smirked.

  "Okay, fair enough. But I really don't know if they're cis or not. I shouldn't make assumptions."

  "Pretend they are. Guy or girl?"

  "Guy," Oliver said. He could feel himself swoon already, picturing the red hair underneath the green elf hat. "He's cute. Really feminine, maybe gay."

  "Well, what's the problem, then?"

  "Cis gay people are contentious. It's about genitals. It's about…"

  "Excuses. I know you want to look at the worst parts of the world. Sometimes that seems to be all there is. But you and I both know that we're right—we are real men and real women. We are happy, healthy, and deserve the right to happiness. If someone denies us that, it's not our fault. It's theirs."

  Oliver nodded. He knew all this. He had learned it all from Trans 101 in therapy. But he thought of theatre again and the way people were trained to know their audiences. When Shakespeare wrote King Lear, it was supposed to be a tragedy. But some nights when the actors got up to perform it, the audience didn't want to be sad—and so King Lear turned from being a play about madness and the love of daughters into something happy again. If the audience wanted something, they got it. And one of Shakespeare's best plays didn't always have to end on a bitter note.

  "I know who I am," Oliver stated. "I picked it out and groomed it, pretty much. But I have to anticipate what people will think of me because as much as I am who I always have been, people have expectations."

  "Fuck expectations. Fuck—"

  "No, Lydia. Expectations are good. They mean that people care about me. That we care about one another. When did expectations become bad? Is this all from Dickens and the terrible sordid fate of poor Pip?"

  Lydia laug
hed. "Well, people expected me to play football and I…"

  "I know," Oliver said, cutting her off. "But I also expect you to be my friend. To listen to me rant like this."

  She grinned. "And I do a pretty good job, if I say so myself."

  "You do. That's my point—we depend and expect things of one another. That doesn't mean that expectations are bad. I need to look at the audience when I perform, and I need that audience, or else there's no reason to come to practice."

  "Except for me."

  "Except for you, naturally."

  Lydia grinned as she added more make-up and began to fuss with Oliver's clothing. There wasn't too much else to add to Vladimir, aside from maybe a prop of an alcohol bottle, but she wanted the conversation to go on a bit longer, even as the chaos around them began to unfold.

  "So what's still running through your head?" Lydia asked. "You got that soliloquy mind going. How would you like to end this performance?"

  "I know, I do that. You're good for supporting me."

  Lydia nodded, ever so slightly. She remained quiet, allowing for Oliver to go on.

  "I suppose… I just want someone to date who understand me and who allows me to be many roles. I don't just want to be the transgender gay guy—or bi guy—that most people boil me down to. I don't want to be just one stereotype. I want to be many."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm a lot of things, Lydia. That's why I like plays. I want to be Vladimir and Romeo—and, you know, I don't even mind playing a chick every so often during practice. It is what it is. A show—nothing permanent."

  "You're a lot more daring than me, sweetie."

  "But you still get it. You know that I'm more than just a trans guy. I'm an actor. A LARPer."

  "A big-ass nerd."

  "Exactly! I love that. I want to relish in that. Not be boxed in."

  More people scattered in the back. The director, Taylor, stuck his head in, his pock-marked face shiny under the lights in the back. "Hey, hey, O. You ready? Jordan's already out here."

  Oliver nodded. Lydia also tilted her head. She turned around in front of him, standing by the mirror. Oliver saw his reflection next to hers, but she took up most of the space—the same way she took up rooms.

  "Well, thank you for telling me your secret life, Mr. O. I appreciate it."

  "And thank you for listening."

  She grinned. "You always know how to thank an audience—and give a show."

  Oliver stood, discarding the smock, and pretended to bow. He gathered up his things as Lydia prepared another group of people for their act.

  "Oh, and Oliver."

  "Yeah?"

  "You coming to the after party tonight?"

  He groaned. "Lydia. I don't do well in social… things."

  "I know, I know. But this is the last shindig before our show goes live. And I am one of many things too, Oliver. In addition to being a trans woman, make-up artist extraordinaire, I am also a heavy party planner and a people person. I have a spot, rightly reserved for you, at my party tonight."

  Oliver rolled his eyes, still feeling anti-social. "Online only. Maybe you could Skype me in."

  Lydia tsk-tsked. "I know this is hard for you. But I expect you to be there. You never know who you may find there. It's the arts—a lot of interesting characters show up."

  Oliver leaned against the doorway. He could hear Taylor's angry sighs as he waited for him. "I just can't."

  "Yes we can," Lydia said. "Come on, O. Tell me what's up. Try to put it into words because I see it storming around in your brain again. Tell Ariel to turn down the tempest."

  Oliver sighed, a hand on the back of his neck. He spoke to the ground, not to Lydia, so he didn't feel even more foolish. "You know the reading levels people put you on in school?"

  "Right, okay."

  "Conversations are like that a lot of the time for me. Most people talk about their mortgages, their kids, and their personal drama's. That's a one or two level of conversation. It's personal, but it's still the surface level. Easy for most people. But I'm a seven. I want to talk about different things, like books or documentaries about the French revolution. It's pretentious, I know, but I want… more."

  "What about your little fandom stuff? What level is that?"

  "That's there. It's maybe a four or five. It's hard to understand if you're outside of the fandom crowd, but really easy to pick up once you're in."

  "Okay," Lydia said, still looking sceptical. "Then what level is trans stuff?"

  "That, like always," Oliver sighed, "is a ten. Impossible to find someone to speak with. Except for you, of course."

  "Of course." Lydia sighed. "So you're basically telling me no more mortgage talk?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you should still go to my party. I can keep the mortgage people away from you. Easy."

  "Really?" Oliver asked. He still didn't know if it was a good idea, but he could hear Taylor's annoyed voice from the stage even more now. Oliver was going to have to make a decision, and really, how bad could it be, if Lydia protected him like she always did?

  Lydia must have seen the resistance faltering and began to rub her hands together. "Excellent, O. I will save a place just for you."

  "Okay, okay. Just don't make it into a big deal?"

  "Never." She winked. "But Oliver, this is a good decision. You never know who you'll meet at places like this. More importantly, you never know who you'll become."

  *~*~*

  Oliver sipped at his drink. It was all he could think to do. He would have to pee so badly by the end of the night, but it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't like he was out in public and would have to navigate the men's bathrooms in a shopping mall. He was at Lydia's condo in Toronto, a nice place, full of old art prints and photos of Greta Garbo's silent film days.

  Lydia talked to one of her guests about the black-and-white photographs. The woman stared, wide-eyed, and hung on every word Lydia said. She was most likely someone who knew Lydia from YouTube and was used to staring mesmerized to a screen.

  "I feel like Garbo was one of the last actresses who maintained a strong distance between herself and her audience," Lydia explained. "We know so little about her, other than that she was lonely. Incredibly so. I can imagine being a silent film star would feel like being muted in the real world. And when people were still getting used to the movies and having distance between themselves and the actors they saw on the screen, it must have been hard. Surreal, even. The actresses and actors become like gods when they're projected so high and admired from afar. So Garbo, in my mind, truly became an icon. I like her. I wish I could cultivate that kind of mystery again."

  Lydia had hung around with Oliver when he first arrived, easing him into the party before she took on the same icon-like status she had cultivated for herself. Lydia greeted him by the doorway, gave him a hug—and a somewhat pretentious air kiss—before she introduced him to some of her friends. Mortgage-free friends, she had assured him, ones without down payments and who weren't talking about getting pregnant.

  "Oliver, this is Christian. Christian, this is Oliver," she introduced after a little while. Oliver could tell by the tone of her voice that Lydia was gearing up to push him out of the social nest. She held her hand on the small of Oliver's back and nudged him towards a man wearing a black T-shirt and a black blazer, looking too much like a hipster.

  "Oliver, Christian is working at the Art Gallery of Ontario over the summer holidays. And he likes Kensington market. Now talk!"

  Oliver had appreciated Lydia's attempts, but he figured he was hopeless. Even when someone had interests other than family and the housing market—something like art which Oliver could relate to—he always felt as if he expressed his opinions wrong. As if he was too enthusiastic or focused on the wrong things. He had fumbled through some rudimentary conversation with Christian about the gallery's recent displays. The AGO had just finished an installation of Frida Kahlo's work. The show had been a big deal and had brought out a
lot of local tourism to the gallery, earning Christian enough overtime and exposure to the Mexican surrealist movement.

  "I just think that time period was so important, you know?" he stated. "Frida paved the way for women painters like Remedios Varo, and especially Leonora Carrington."

  "Uh-huh. I guess. You know Frida was bisexual?" Oliver asked before he could stop himself. "She spent a lot of her time in drag, too."

  Christian nodded, though slightly taken back. "I know she painted herself that way. Maybe in A Few Small Nips?"

  "No. That's a different painting. There's one where she's wearing a suit and her hair is all over the floor after she cut it, and a sad song is on the radio in the background. You can tell because she wrote the song lyrics in the painting itself. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

  Christian had tried to smile and move on, but without much luck. All events in his life, Oliver knew he would try to connect to gender. It was what he latched onto in social settings, as a desperate attempt at recognition. He always wanted to focus on the background lives or artists or writers, as if it was a silent plea to the person he talked to. If you don't think this artist or writer is a freak for liking men and women, and then cross-dressing, then maybe you won't mind me.

  "She also slept with Trotsky," Oliver added, biting his tongue after he did. "Frida, I mean."

  "I saw that in the film they did. I didn't think it was real."

  "It was definitely real. But what they kept out of the film was when she slept with Georgia O'Keeffe. Everyone was so hush-hush about that."

  "Oh. Interesting," Christian said, sounding very un-interested. "I didn't know that."

  Oliver couldn't help it. He told Christian more and more about O'Keeffe's queer life, as if it was a show that used to star Claire Danes. But Christian wasn't into the Mexican surrealist movement for the queerness of the artists. He wasn't even into it to talk about techniques. He wanted political statements, but pretentious ones at that, ones that made him as an art student seem deeper than he really was.