Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  “I don’t think I’ve seen any other transgendered people.”

  “Oh, we’re out and about,” the librarian said matter-of-factly. “There aren’t a lot of us, of course. I socialize with a dozen or so. But I think there’s close to one hundred of us.”

  “Some are ‘pre-op’; some are ‘post-op’?”

  “Pre-op. Almost all of us. “There’s no ‘op’ anymore. The procedure hasn’t been performed in this country in more than two decades.”

  The subject was captivating to Meredith, and she was inclined to press for more details, but she knew it was too easy to segue into personal areas. More than ten years had passed since she had spent any time with a transgendered person. They, like the country’s gay population, had lit out for Canada and beyond, or had come to the parks. Arguments that they were heterosexual or that those among them who were post-operative were unable to reproduce met with no success. No, the argument went—as did the legislation—they were required to reside in the parks, “for their own protection.” Surely, it was reasoned, the country’s transgendered population understood there was no longer a place for them in the general population. Always politically aligned with gay men, lesbians, and bisexuals, the transgendered citizens found their political clout evaporated with the others of the GLBT community.

  Meredith tempered her curiosity about Siobhan with her wish to avoid asking anything the librarian might find intrusive or offensive, or, she was afraid, insultingly naïve.

  “You mentioned your wardrobe,” she said, settling on a neutral enough subject. “That’s something I’ve been interested in learning a little about. How do people—the residents, I mean—get their clothes? I’ve got a couple of friends in Building D, but they’re both men. I wonder if the woman’s experience isn’t even harsher than theirs. I would think that must be so, particularly if the woman is trying to maintain a decent business, or even business casual, wardrobe.”

  “But you know the basics about how we get our clothes?”

  “I know there’s a limited budget—and I’m sure it’s more limited than it used to be, what with all the cost-cutting measures that seem to touch, indeed drive, every move around here.”

  “They give each of us an annual allowance,” Siobhan confirmed. “Men and women have the same amount to work with. Most people, like me, shop by mail, by catalogue, because the choices are greater. Others buy from the limited, albeit heavily discounted, choices the park makes available; they send out a brochure every quarter. I’ve no idea why; the choices are the same year round: solid colored t-shirts, polo shirts, two brands of jeans, cheap sneakers. Only the prices change. The quality is decent, but the styles are so basic, almost like uniforms. Everyone walks around looking like customer service representatives in one of those awful, low-end department stores. In fifteen years there has been no variety in them. You’ll notice most of the folks at the park go that route. Of course, those who still have contacts outside get their people to send them clothes. If you’re one of those lucky types, you might have an elaborate wardrobe. That’s not my situation; most of my friends on the outside are in fairly dire straits or have too many other friends in the parks they’re trying to help out. Either way, they lack the funds to provide more than the occasional article.”

  “And shopping on-line, is that ever allowed?” Meredith knew it was not, but wanted to hear the woman’s response. She also expected to confirm her suspicions of the computer on the counter before them.

  Siobhan shook her head. “On-line?” she asked. “This is a library, yet, do you see any computers in it?”

  Meredith perused the room. As Siobhan’s question implied, there was a complete lack of access to communication technology. The noticeable features on this first level were display tables and shelves featuring “classics” and “staff favorites.” Newspapers hung on horizontal poles on racks. Each pole was labeled, and many of the nation’s widest-circulated papers were present. She saw a few of the New York and Los Angeles papers. The front sections were missing; apparently only the sports, entertainment, variety, and garden sections were available. “No need to upsetting our residents with disturbing politics and world events,” she could easily imagine Chuck Makepeace rationalizing. Television journalism and whatever messages reached them from those “outside” seemed to be the only means of staying current.

  “Even this one has limited capacity,” Siobhan said, returning Meredith’s attention to the computer between them on the counter. “No access to the internet or the outside world. It’s the computer equivalent of a house phone. They’ve always banned real computers. Phones, too, as you undoubtedly know. They’ve been concerned that information would be leaked to the press, or at least, that’s always been my suspicion. The Government’s position, of course—”

  “Is that it’s a security risk,” Meredith jumped in without emotion.

  “Right. They’ve argued that computer access will lead to virus infection and that it would be too expensive and time consuming to deal with that. They’ve argued that the internet provides access to ‘false information’ about the parks and would cause unnecessary confusion and unrest among the residents. That’s the more popular excuse these days.”

  “Which,” Meredith added, “is part of their well-known position, ‘It’s for their own good.’ So much seems to be justified with this declaration of their paternalistic motives.”

  “They’ll never admit that their concern is that information coming out of the parks could lead to greater scrutiny of them. Obviously they’re afraid such intercourse between the people here and the people out there would bring the whole system into disfavor. And they’re justly afraid that two-way communications would lead to escape attempts. They—and how can you blame them?—quite justifiably worry that people will try to contact Jack Harbour and his group, or people like them. And any communication among the residents causes the greatest concern of all. If you give the folks here phones and computers, they might use them to say mean things or plan secret things. Hell, you can’t even hold a private party with more than about eight guests without arousing their suspicions. Anytime you do, you can count on someone from the Administration showing up to claim there’ve been complaints about the noise. And whoever the staff member is, a deputy director or even just an attendant, whoever it is who represents the Administration will linger at the party—help himself to the food—and make a point of meeting all the guests and learning their names. It’s basically intimidation.”

  Meredith changed the subject because her window of escape from rehearsals did not allow the full discussion the topic merited. There were other questions to ask. “How comfortable is the climate for transgendered people?”

  Siobhan pondered this. “It’s safe, to be sure,” she said with a degree of caution that seemed to contradict the statement. “And among the residents, it’s hit or miss, just like it used to be out there. I mean, you know, in the general society. I find that some people will stare. Some are civil, but those types rarely warm up to us. On the other hand, there are a fair number of people who are genuinely interested in friendship.”

  “And the staff?”

  “Well, that’s a little different. I’ve never heard of any overt harassment; that’s what I meant when I said it’s a safe environment. Nonetheless, there is definitely a pecking order here, and they make it clear we are on the bottom of it. I guess I’d say there’s a general sense of coolness from the staff, particularly the men. There’s no name calling, of course, no physical threats that I’m aware of, but you might wait two weeks longer than anyone else to get a toilet fixed—and then only after repeated complaints. And the person who shows up to do the work—fixing the plumbing or the heat, or whatever it is—is likely to do a poor job, or will have the wrong tools, or will bring the wrong replacement parts. To add further insult, every complaint, every detail you provide to explain the particular problem is greeted with the Minnesota-nice smile. The smile that seems to comply with social decorum, but c
onveys ‘I’m acting nice, but you and I both know there’s no sincerity behind my smile.’”

  “You’d say the staff is uncomfortable with you?”

  “Yes, but it isn’t just that. Your average transgendered person has come to expect that reaction—particularly from straight America. It’s the fact that we’re perceived as the most flamboyant or, I don’t know what—bizarre, I guess, by their standards. The staff here at Fallow Park is accustomed to interacting with gay men and lesbians. They’ve come to understand them as a, how should I put it, a reality of the human condition. With transgendered men and women there’s still this increased stigma, a belief that we’re just gay people who want to reinvent ourselves as heterosexuals. Moreover, there’s a perception that we’re merely transvestites, that a male to female transgendered person like me just wants to be a showgirl and wear sequined dresses with side slits cut up to the heavens. Which is pretty odd to me. I mean, look at me, I look like an old-maid librarian out of a Fannie Hurst novel.”

  Siobhan exaggerated. She was, Meredith thought, quite attractive, even though her clothes were overly conservative and her make-up was minimal. She was of an age when a little more foundation would help. Meredith assumed financial constraints precluded a cream that would blur the sharp creases around her eyes. She was partial to the brand she used—she had an excess supply of it, and still received shipments of it quarterly as part of an endorsement deal—but knew she would be unable to give it to Siobhan. A consultation with the loudly ticking clock on the wall behind Siobhan reminded her she would be leaving the park in less than ten hours.

  “But also,” Siobhan continued, giving no hint that she was conscious of Meredith’s frequent consultations with the clock, “we’re the smallest sub-group. We’ve got the least amount of power here—not that anyone who lives here could be considered to be more than impotent. While most of the purely gay population welcomes us, to the staff and administration we are more provisionally tolerated. And that sense of being less than the others, the notion that we’re just playing dress-up, does, for me at least, cause a division, a sense that our experience is perceived as less legitimate—and that we are minimalized based on a belief that we are the authors of our difficulties. ‘Hey, they choose to be that way.’ An utterly ridiculous perception in these better informed times—and more than a little offensive. In this environment, it isn’t surprising that we, the smallest group of people, are most likely to get the shortest end of the stick.”

  “Then there is some tension among sub-groups?”

  “No. Yes. Yes and no, but not any more than you would expect. What’s most frustrating to me are the supposedly well-meaning gay men and lesbians who suggest we appear to live as our birth gender, and be more private about transgenderism. Gay people!” she exclaimed with disgust. “People who should know better essentially saying, ‘you can pass for non-trans, so why don’t you?’ Just like the conservatives used to ask of all gay people, ‘you can pass for straight, so why don’t you, instead of pushing your sexuality down our throats?’”

  “There still isn’t a test to distinguish a transgendered person from a gay person, is there?”

  “Not as yet,” Siobhan said.

  Once again Meredith looked to the humming and ticking clock on the wall, reminding her with each measured second that two directors and a stage full of modern day vaudevillians were waiting for her.

  “I suppose that clock is correct,” she said with a touch of despair.

  “It is,” Siobhan said with a regret that matched Meredith’s. “I suppose it’s time for you to run off?”

  Meredith nodded with a smile she hoped was bittersweet.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m sorry I did most of the talking.” She folded Meredith’s scarf, which she had been caressing throughout the conversation, and handed it to her. It had appeared so natural in Siobhan’s hands Meredith had almost forgotten it was hers.

  “I wonder if you’d do me a great favor.” Meredith asked. “Will you keep it?”

  “Are you sure?” Siobhan sounded genuinely surprised, but clutched it possessively as if to ward off any confusion about her right to it.

  “Quite. I’ll be glad to know you have it.”

  Meredith turned and looked back as she crossed the expanse to the entrance. Siobhan waved back with her free hand, still holding the scarf in the other.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Meredith suspected Tyler could read the urgency in her eyes. If only she had taken the time to write a note, a message she could slip to him now. But Jack had been clear on that point: commit nothing to paper. Leave no evidence. Everyone is a potential mole or a downtrodden malcontent who might benefit from courting favors from Makepeace and company. All communication, he had drummed into her, must be verbal and in person.

  She counted on this eleventh hour conversation as a sure thing. Unfortunately, the constant flow of people prevented her from telling Tyler what he needed to know. He only knew the basics she had been able to convey to him on Wednesday, but the updated version, changes to the established plan, needed to be explained. With every passing minute, it seemed less certain that she would have the few minutes alone with him. Her dressing room was now a receiving room for the well-wishers, the men and women she had met over the course of the week. There was also the constant double checking by one of the assistant directors; she found herself on the receiving end of a steady onslaught of good cheer, coupled with feeble attempts to raise spirits. Misplaced handholding, Meredith thought; she had done nothing to convey a sense of anxiety—and certainly nothing to suggest stage fright. She had simply made the mistake of requesting to be left alone, and this apparently had raised concerns that the “temperamental star” was having second thoughts. And amidst this steady stream of activity, there was also the threat that “the powers that be,” in the form of one of Makepeace’s flunkies, or the park director himself, could show up at any turn with another release for her to sign. Added to these activities and general confusion, Meredith was convinced every word she said could be heard in either of the adjoining dressing rooms.

  It was fantastic to her that in the course of this entire day she had failed to secure a five-minute audience with her son to explain the alterations to the plan. How she had let the time slip by was unclear to her. It had stood still so often over the course of her visit. Today, somehow had fast forwarded into this evening. After she left the library, she had returned to the Anissa Culligan Center for Performing Arts and ran through two full rehearsals, gone back to her room briefly to shower and change, and returned to the theater for Del’s final notes. Tyler had stayed away—he had dialysis in the afternoon. Jack had pointedly insisted Tyler stick to his schedule to avoid raising suspicion. Tyler himself noted it would be a mistake to skip his appointment; he might have a prolonged wait until another treatment could be arranged in Canada.

  Some inadequately explained hold-up with his transportation to the theater brought him to her dressing room less than half-an-hour before curtain. The delay in styling her hair was, in Del Carroll’s words, “highly unprofessional.” He assured her that he had never witnessed such a lapse in any of his prior experiences in the theater. Tyler now worked on her hair, primping and pruning, but both knew his job was finished. Nevertheless, he fussed about and continued to mouth questions to her reflection in the mirror.

  “What?” he would say without a sound.

  “Shh. Later,” she would whisper back.

  So it went for the better part of twenty minutes. Just before eight, the intrusions subsided and many of the well-wishers responded to Del Carroll’s command, “Places. Places everyone.” Meredith thought there would be an opportunity for a private audience at last, but Del then appeared at the door. It was almost an entrance, clearly timed with everyone else’s departure. Meredith braced herself for his pep talk.

  “I won’t wish you good luck, of course,” he said with a wink, “and it seems a crime to wish any misfortune on your f
abulous gams.” He waited as if social propriety dictated some kind of response, but she refused to encourage him. Play it cold and difficult, she told herself. He’ll give up eventually. Make it clear you’re too busy to be more than civil.

  “I just want to say,” he said in a phony heartfelt style that infuriated her, “this has been one of the great privileges in my long career.”

  God, was he milking it, she thought. And could he talk any slower?

  “I’ve never been good at goodbyes,” he continued in the same deliberately paced manner. It was as if he were playing to the balcony and every word had to be emphasized: I’ve (pause) never (pause) been (pause)…

  “Neither have I,” she said, cutting him off. “And I refuse to say one now. Let’s pretend that we’re in previews and we anticipate a long run.” She knew he would jump at the image.

  “Yes, let’s,” he agreed. “I see a plethora of awards laid out on this dressing table, framed reviews on the wall, and us, exhausted after a performance, planning a national tour.”

  Buoyed by this success, she pressed on: “Let’s not say another word. We mustn’t spoil the moment!”

  Del nodded and put his hand to his mouth. He beat on his chest twice and offered an extended hand to her, as if he were offering her his heart. She nodded with closed eyes in a knowing way. It was pure agony, she thought, tantamount to consuming excrement, but it was over.