by Aimee Norin
Out of the Closet
by Aimee Norin
Copyright 2014 by Aimee Norin. All rights reserved. Beyond the legal minimum, no part of this book may be reproduced or shared. Email Aimee Norin at [email protected]
This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters, things, places and events appearing in this work are fictitious.
This novel is for mature understanding. Though many of the concepts are sophisticated, about the life of transpersons, and though life and love are well celebrated herein, if it were a film I believe it could be shown on prime time, broadcast television because of the way it is restrained. It is not explicit in sex, but it is in the love of friends, the love of family, and romance between couples. It is about five people—a transsexual war veteran and P.O.W.; a transgender facing oppresion in a small, Arizona town; a Christian, natal cowboy who is accepting; a Muslim crossdresser from Afghanistan, who now lives in San Francisco; and a Jewish, lesbian school teacher from Texas—become friends, participate in San Francisco’s annual Pride parade and festivities, and take their lessons back to that small town in Arizona, where they overcome issues in a way far larger than they could have expected.
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Out of the Closet
By
Aimee Norin
Begin Reading
Preface
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
About the Author
Contact the Author
“… all you have to do is to knock on any door and say, ‘If you’ll let me in, I’ll live the way you want me to live, and I’ll think the way you want me to think,’ and all the blinds will go up, and all the doors will open, and you’ll never be lonely, ever again.”
Spencer Tracy as Henry Drummond
Inherit the Wind
1960
PREFACE
Out of the Closet is a positive, uplifting novel about people who have the courage to stand with friends who are different, while continuing to maintain their own identity as well.
Five people—a transsexual war veteran and P.O.W.; a transgender facing oppresions in a small, Arizona town; a Christian, natal cowboy who is accepting; a Muslim crossdresser from Afghanistan, who now lives in San Francisco; and a Jewish, lesbian school teacher from Texas—become friends, participate in San Francisco’s annual Pride parade and festivities, and take their lessons back to that small town in Arizona, where they overcome issues in a way far larger than they could have expected.
Everyone who has been treated badly by a majority for a difference, whether an issue of race, religion, sex, gender, orientation, or anything else, has known the pain of rejection—and specifically by people who pretend to be accepting when they are not. The tell is the pattern of exclusion, of people acting like friends, while it happens over a long period of time that the person who is different is kept away from the friend’s other friends. When gently confronted, pretended friends—in this day of manufactured words, maybe I should make up “priends”—then deny they are doing anything:
“I try to be friends with you, and you accuse me of prejudice? I am seen with you in public in front of other people!”
“But you’re keeping me away from people you know,” the transperson begs.
In this scenario, the priend doesn’t face his issues. The transperson takes the exclusions as a painful blow and drifts away from him to protect her battered heart. Then the priend, not owning his feelings, blames the transperson for no longer reciprocating friendship: “Hell, I don’t know what happened. I have been inviting her, but she won’t come any more.” The transperson knows this is happening also, and takes it as being kicked when she is down.
Trying a little devil’s advocacy, maybe we could ask if the reason for the exclusions is the priend likes a lot of different people, and his ethos is to keep friends separate if he feels they won’t get along. But per avoidance of a difference like trans, I usually wonder if the motivation for exclusion is really that altrustic. What is beneath the “diplomacy,” the willingness to hurt one of his friends, or to allow her to be hurt, so that other friends may avoid her? It may instead be as simple as giving in to small minds, reinforcing bigotry to satisfy a personal need to have his other friends, rather than encouraging growth and acceptance, or growing, himself.
This kind of thing seems benign to a lot of people, but I think, instead, that it is cruel.
To help people see what they’re saying, I sometimes recommend substituting a more socially recognized minority reference. Imagine a person who is saying they won’t come to an outing, “if you bring along that (minority) person.”
There are many people who, even while they may decry such a hurtful thing for other minorities, would nonetheless consider it valid to raise the same objection about a transperson.
Out of the Closet is an example of people who have the courage to stand with friends who are different, while maintaining their own identity as they do, letting each person be herself—as, without those qualities, conflict would be created and separation would result. The cowboy from Arizona, the transsexual from the Army, the transgender from L.A., the crossdresser from Afghanistan, the lesbian from Texas …
Aimee Norin
BRIEF INTRODUCTION
Five good people who are different from each other—a transsexual war veteran and P.O.W.; a transgender facing oppresions in a small, Arizona town; a Christian natal cowboy who is accepting; a Muslim crossdresser from Afghanistan, who now lives in San Francisco; and a Jewish, lesbian biker—all become friends, participate in San Francisco’s annual Pride festivities, and take their lessons back to that small town in Arizona, where they overcome oppressions in a way far larger than they could have expected.
CHAPTER
1
The window exploded through the cockpit of the chopper. Blood splattered across the panel to the windows on the other side. The Blackhawk helicopter lurched to the side, jamming the crew against their restraints.
“Aaaaaaaaaah!” the co-pilot yelled grabbing his head.
Fifty feet below, the Afghan desert town began to spin.
The pilot yanked to bank, but the chopper didn’t respond. He fought the controls.
The co-pilot fell onto the controls on his side, and the pilot reached over with his left hand to pull his head back off the cyclic. “Hold on!” he screamed at the crew, but there was no time.
Almost immediately, the chopper crashed through the roof of the nearest building, its tail rotor raking through the outside wall of the next structure. Stone shards hit the chopper like bullets.
The pilot slammed against the chopper’s frame. His helmet cracked. Something knifed its way through the flesh of his right arm.
* * *
Oceanna organized costumes in the film’s Venice Beach location semi-trailer, provided for the purpose. She held out a rather nice bodice that might do the trick.
“How about this?” she asked a co-worker. “I normally do set design.”
“I thought you were the authority on all things silk,” he responded with a playful, campy smirk.
“That’s Drag Queens, sugar plumb,” Oceanna said. “You ever seen me on stage?”
* * *
It was a hot day in Kingman, Arizona.
“Over there,” Derie said, pointing. She slipped fingers through her husband’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
A man with a large forklift took a load of alfalfa hay bales off a flat-bed truck and waddled through the parking lot with them to the stacks in the back.
“This will be a fine feed store when it opens, Derie,” Mason Winchester said to his wife, holding their two-year-old son, Jason, in his free arm.<
br />
“You bet it will be.” The truck driver doubled as a rancher. “You both been married, what?”
“’Bout three years,” Mason said to him.
“Four,” Derie corrected. “And getting better all the time.”
* * *
In an assisted living facility in Kingman, Eighty-four-year-old Emily looked up from her wheelchair and smiled at Oceanna. She mouthed more than spoke, and Oceanna picked out the words. “Love you—” Emily clipped the name, as always.
“Oceanna,” Oceanna said, touching her own chest. “I’m Oceanna—”
“I know it,” Emily said.
Oceanna choked back a tear. “I love you, too, Mom.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” another resident in the assisted living facility laughed. “Still won’t call you by name?”
Oceanna turned to the man, in a recliner with his walker beside him.
“Not yet,” she said.
“How long’s it been since you switched?” the man asked.
“Uh,” Oceanna thought. “About twenty years.”
The man laughed
“And what’s wrong with that?” Oceanna asked him.
“You’re just different, is all,” Nurse Sarah said, walking into the day room. “Kingman isn’t L.A.”
Oceanna smiled at her. “I’m here to visit my mom for a while.”
No one spoke at first, then, “How long?” someone in the back asked.
“I don’t know,” Oceanna said, eyeing the group. “I might move here permanently, for all I know. The desert is so clean, and you’re all so nice!”
* * *
Jed parked his dirty old pickup outside the convenience store, just off the freeway in Kingman. “Got to go inside and get some beer,” he said to Frank in the passenger seat.
“’Kay,” Frank said with a smile.
“Leave things alone in here while I’m gone!” Jed said to him.
Frank looked at the dusty mess of papers, pens, beer bottles and candy bar wrappers on the seat and floor. There were some left-over French fries in a greasy bag near the stick shift, and part of a hamburger under a brown paper bag.
A woman’s baby-blue garter belt hung from the rear view mirror.
“’Kay,” Frank said with a smile.
Jed jumped out of the pickup and walked toward the store.
A gay couple came out and accidentally hit Jed’s hand with the door.
“Oh, we’re so sorry! Are you hurt?” One man said with a smile, reaching out to touch Jed on the arm.
“Watch it!” Jed knocked the man back into the store front. “Didn’t you see me comin’? Oh, Jeees,” Jed said to Frank back in the truck, indicating the travelers. “Lookie what we got here?”
Frank did.
He turned back to the frightened men. “Can’t you get lily-pink gas back there in California?”
* * *
The pilot, thin, naked and bloodied, lost in Afghanistan, was chained to the ceiling in a small, hot room. His arms were stretched over his head; hand cuffs dug into the flesh of his wrists. His legs could no longer hold his weight and were bent at the knees. Blood on his arms, head, chest and back that once ran freely was brown and caked with sweat and dirt.
Tears were dried where they had streamed down his face unknown days before. The horror of his life had long since fled his mind leaving him only with the stunned need to cease. To stop. To not BE any more. There was no more need, no internal plea—no pain as a child, no fear as an adolescent, no self-hatred, no yearning any more for God to help.
There were no more thoughts.
There was only death.
The door to the room opened. A small man entered carrying a plate of dried food. He sat it on the floor in front of the pilot and proceeded to urinate on it, laughing. He said something the pilot didn’t hear, slapped him hard across the face, and walked back out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
Wearing their Sunday best, Mason, Derie, and their son, Jason—now three—sat in their customary pew in church. The congregation was singing.
“Count your blessings,
name them one by one …”
* * *
Oceanna walked into the restaurant.
“Excuse me? May I ask where is the ladies’ room?”
Staff didn’t respond.
* * *
“G’mornin’, Ma’am.” The old farmer said, tipping his hat to the lady. He made his way through the feed store, clomping his boots on the rough wood floor as he went. “I’m here to see what you have for horses.”
“Sure,” Derie said, walking in the direction of the horse aisle. “More ‘n we know what to do with, right over here.”
Jason, her four-year-old, had been playing with a truck behind the counter. He picked it up and followed his mother.
“I got me a horse just the other day. Didn’t plan on it, but ole Greenblat—that place north of the Crawford’s? He sold me his for a song, right out of the blue.”
Derie smiled at the sight of her son with her in the store.
Mason came in from the back-lot door. “Nice to see you again, Bill.”
“Your family is such a picture,” the man said.
* * *
Jed walked through Walmart, through the ladies’ department in the front of the store toward the sporting goods section in the back, Frank in tow.
“Some nice things in here,” Frank said.
“You a pervert, Frank?”
“Can I help you, sir?” an employee asked.
“Did I ask you for help?” Jed said to her gruffly.
* * *
The pilot lay naked on the concrete floor of the small room, against the back wall, his lungs barely breathing, his heart barely beating. The filthy floor beneath him was cold and hard, though he didn’t notice. His bones cut through emaciated skin to stab at the dirty crust.
The small door to the room opened, and a woman entered carrying a plate of food. She sat the food down on the floor by the prisoner, said something to him that, as always, was not heard. She repeated herself, louder, but the pilot didn’t respond.
Another woman stuck her head into the room, and the two women seemed to argue about the prisoner.
The first lady nudged the pilot with her foot.
Nothing.
She looked at him for a few seconds, then turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
CHAPTER
2
The boom from a nearby explosion shook the walls. Dirt settled off them. Gunfire echoed off buildings.
Army choppers flew overhead, the Doppler shift dropping their tone as they passed.
Marines shouted in the fury of battle.
“Over there!”
More gunfire.
“Aaaaaaayyy!”
“Round that building!”
“Heads up!”
“Hurry up!”
“Get over there! Clear that site!”
The door to the pilot’s room burst open.
“Oh, Jesus!” the lieutenant said, seeing the starved body on the floor. “There he is!” The lieutenant ran over to the body, knelt beside the still, naked, emaciated form and looked for signs of life.
A sergeant ran into the room. The lieutenant glanced at her.
“Chief!” the lieutenant shouted at the still body on the floor.
No response.
“No dog tags!” the lieutenant said to the sergeant.
The lieutenant gently stroked the pilot’s hollow face. “Chief Warrant Officer Fisher!” the lieutenant shouted.
Still no response.
“Is he alive?” the sergeant asked.
“Maybe,” the lieutenant said. He put two fingers on the chief’s neck. “Jesus Christ! CORPSMAN!” he yelled, calling for the Navy field paramedic. “CORPSMAN!”
“He’s okay?” the sergeant asked, stepping forward.
The sergeant and a corpsman bore Fisher on a stretcher to a waiting Army c
opter.
Another soldier ran beside the stretcher holding a bottle of saline, fed into Fisher’s I.V.
Other service men and women stood around them, watching with respect.
“Eight months in that hell hole,” someone nearby said.
Fisher lay in a hospital bed in the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland. He had multiple I.V.s. A nurse sat beside his bed and spoke to him softly.
Tears formed in Fisher’s eyes for the first time since his arrival.
“Doctor!” the nurse called.
Two months later, still far-too-skinny Fisher sat on the floor in a Navy psychiatrist’s office, in Bethesda, holding his own head in his hands as if he meant to crush it, crying, face red and distorted, rocking back and forth in fear and shame.
The psychiatrist was obviously moved and compassionate, slipping out of his chair to sit beside the patient on the floor.
“You’ve carried this with you your whole life?” the doctor asked.
Fisher covered his face with his hands and nodded through sobs.
The doctor reached out to touch Fisher’s hand.
Fisher jerked his hand away. “Are you gonna hurt me, too?”
“No!” the doctor asserted confidently, withdrawing his reach. “This is not the ‘70s.”
Fisher sat in a small apartment off-base and checked her email on her out-of-date iPhone 4S.
There it was, the one she was looking for.
She thumbed into her phone:
“Yes! thank U!
I have enough!!!!
Back pay and bonus
THANK U! THANK YOU!
But I need to RUSH Its been too long
Who can help me fast?
I cant do this any more
