Squirrel Cage

by Cindi Jones

“Look in the box Cindi.” And then I discovered a small pamphlet with drawings. And I hid in the bathroom with the door locked while I read this thing. It was difficult. I was only in first grade and I had to sound out the words. And many of them were things that I didn’t understand. But the drawings belied all. Not only was I not a girl, I was so physically different. I decided to keep the pamphlet. I put it in my secret place with my Barbie. As the years went by, I slowly was able to understand each word and each piece of anatomy described in the pamphlet. It was well worn and yellowed by the time it went into the trash.

  8, 9, 10, My birthdays came and went. The Rusty stopped making his appearances in my dreams. I had known for some time that the Rusty and Squirrel weren’t real. I remembered and dreaded the mere thought of them. I knew the fear and shame of being seen in girl clothes. Rusty had shown me. I could never, ever forget the Rusty. Rusty faded away from my dreams but Squirrel never left my waking consciousness. The Squirrel was not a childhood nightmare. The Squirrel was my deep seated and conscious secret thoughts. It learned to run faster.

  In my early teens, the activity of dressing up turned sexual. One night as I was dressed in my girl clothes, I had the sudden urge to run to the bathroom. Instead of urine, a white creamy material fell into the toilet. I knew that it was sperm. I knew that I had committed an egregious sin. I was so ashamed and I vowed to never again dress up. My promise to myself lasted one week. The sexual aspects clouded my true desires from that point forward. It confused me. I could not understand why the act of becoming a girl forced this thing to happen to me. The Squirrel told me I was a pervert and I knew that it was true.

  There could be no other person in the entire world as disgusting and perverted as I. What was I becoming? How would everyone treat me when they found out? I knew that I would surely die if anyone did find out. And I knew deep in my heart that I wanted to be caught. I needed the release, to be punished, for my maleness to die. But my stash was never discovered and I was never “caught” wearing girl clothes. There was one close call.

  Mom and Dad left for a special event and I would have hours at home and alone. This would be a few hours when I would be a girl for the whole time. I took my boy clothes off and went to the bathroom to put on my girl clothes. Mom had forgotten something. They had returned and I had not heard the truck outside. The back door opened with a sonic boom in my ears. “Oh Crap! They are home.” What was I going to do? My boy clothes were in my bedroom. I was dressed as a girl standing in the bathroom. I quickly removed my precious articles and hid them in the hamper under a skanky wet towel.

  I quickly washed the makeup from my face and then I walked out with my boy shorts on to see what was up. Mom looked at me and asked sternly “what are you doing with your clothes off?’ Now the Squirrel had always helped me prepare a backup plan, a path of retreat, and always, a clever answer. I stood there stupefied. The Squirrel had not anticipated that they would return after only 15 minutes. Of course the very best answer in the world would have been that I was preparing to take a bath. Why this did not occur to me I’ll never know. Instead I responded “Mom, no one is here, it’s a warm day, and no one can see me. So who cares if I run around the house with nothing on?”

  “Are you sure nothing is going on?” as she looked me in the eyes.

  “Sure Mom. Nothing is wrong,” was my response to her. I felt as though I were saying “I dunno” all over again just as I had done the first time I was caught stealing.

  Now I had added a huge lie to the black book of Cindi Sins. The pervert not only was a stealer, but also a liar. It hurt. But it also got me off the hook. Mom picked up her keys or purse or whatever it was that she had come back for. I suppose that she thought that it would be all right if I ran around the house with nothing but my shorts on. Perhaps she thought that it was a sure clue that I would not be having a party.

  At fourteen, I quit stealing. I had discovered that I could push the embarrassment aside for brief moments while I shopped and purchased clothing for myself. Before long, I learned that with long hair, I could actually pass as female. During the seventies, men’s and women’s clothing were colorful, blasted with streaks of flowers, and platform shoes were in style. And best of all, it was cool to have long hair… and I knew that I had beautiful hair much to the consternation of my Father. He told me constantly, in a derogatory way that I looked like a girl. Although the comment was mean spirited, I loved it. I loved you daddy for telling me. I received similar comments from my hairdressers. They always told me that I “should be a girl with hair like this”. Yes, thank you very much. I knew more than they could ever comprehend.

  I purchased a beautiful girl’s button up blouse with strips of peach flowers. I had a matching pair of velvet peach colored hip huggers. I also purchased a pair of girl’s white bell bottoms. Oh, how I treasured these things. I did not need to hide them. They hung proudly in my closet. I thought this would slow the Squirrel down, that it would find some peace. No. The Squirrel kept running, showing even more ways to move one step ahead with my desires, find new sins to commit, and ever solidify my pervert status.

  Many times I went out in my favorite clothes; I was sometimes treated as a girl. I loved it. No…. no more stealing. Now I could get what I wanted with money. Money was easy to earn. I collected pop bottles, did chores around the house, and took every chance to make a few dollars to buy my clothes. I wore my blouses and girl’s bell bottoms for two years with no one being the wiser. I wore them to school, to church functions, and everywhere else. It made me very happy to wear the things that I wanted and to come off as a girl when I wanted. But it did not stop the Squirrel. And my ability to pass would not last long. I knew that I would mature as I aged and that masculine features would soon conquer my face and voice.

  I would not let my mother touch my girl clothes. I did not want her to ruin them in hot water or throw them into the dryer. I religiously washed my girl bell bottoms myself in cold water. I would carefully iron them every time I would wear them. I knew that Mom wondered why I was so careful with these, my precious things. Many times she offered to wash them. I would not let her touch them. I can only wonder what went through her mind.

  I finally relinquished the better part of my stolen stash. I had been keeping it all. I still had Lace’s white socks and shoes that had not fit for years. I could no longer manage the risk of hiding these things. It was amazing just how much I had. I filled three large paper grocery sacks and waited until I could hear the garbage truck come, early one morning. Right before it came to my house, I slipped out with my treasures. I carefully squished them into the cans already placed in position. And just as I finished, the colossal rancorous dragon lumbered to the curbside. I watched as my girl history went into the back end. The garbage man pulled the lever and the big scoop came down and the dragon consumed my treasures, mixing them with everyone else’s garbage. My trashy life was mixed with the neighbors’ garbage. “The pervert who steals is only worth a truckload of garbage,” I glumly pondered. I blindly wandered back into the house as the dragon slowly pulled away belching and coughing, choking on my filth. I knew the value of garbage and I apparently was not worth that much.

  The Squirrel kept on running, spinning the wheel, running, and sleeping only while I slept and even then, during my dreams, the Squirrel came back, spinning ways to push me into damnation.

  My stealing days were over. “At least I can now be an honest person even if I am a pervert,” I reasoned. Little did I know that the Squirrel would help me become the most despicable pervert in the world. Over the next ten years, I would learn to betray every person that I ever loved. I would lie to them. I would steal their confidence. I would steal pieces of their precious lives. I would lead them on. I, singularly, would be the source of anguish, embarrassment, and desperation for a full generation of my family.

  How I hated the Rusty, how I abhorred the Squirrel. How I loathed every fiber of my being.

  Dalene

  We were clea
ning up after a big family meal at Nanna’s house. My father’s siblings and all their children were running around the house. The meal had been very nice. And I don’t know how I ended up cleaning in the kitchen. I was not one to volunteer for such things. But I was holding a dish towel when a young woman appeared out of nowhere. She was, perhaps a couple years older than I was.

  “David,” said my aunt, “this is your sister.”

  If there were a word in the English language that held a prolonged “uh” sound, it would be used here. All conversation stopped and everyone turned to look at us. I could not understand. I didn’t have a sister. What a sister would have meant to me! And yet here was a young attractive girl of 12 extending her hand to me. “Hi” was all she said.

  “Uh, ah, hi, my name is David,” I said as I returned my hand. She only stayed briefly, made the rounds, and then left. I was confused. I felt betrayed. How could I have a sister and never have met her? I had a stupid little brother all my life. And I had a big sister? My mind raced. I still did not understand.

  And then, the Squirrel started running ever faster and my thoughts fell into the abyss. A sister. A playmate. A friend. Girl clothes. Oh how would it be to have a sister.

  “Mom,” I asked later “Do I have a sister?” She shirked it off and did not explain. I had no answers. It was a subject that we did not discuss in the family. I was left to dream about my sister. I would never have the sisterly companionship that I craved. Or would I? I wondered and schemed and invented wonderful daydreams with my sister.

  A year passed and she came to the door. I was in the living room and I was the first to arrive to answer the front door. She looked at me sheepishly.

  “Hi David,” she said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Why, I’m Dalene, we met last year.”

  “You didn’t tell me your name,” I responded.

  “Oh I’m sorry. Will you give this to my Dad?” she said as she passed me a birthday card through the door. I watched her skip down the stairs and out to a waiting car. She disappeared through an open door and the car whisked her away.

  I gave Dad the card. “Tell me about Dalene, Dad,” I asked. I should have asked him long before. Dad never beat around the bush much.

  I remember that once I asked him about a word painted on the wall at school. It was the F bomb. Everyone made fun of me because I didn’t know what it meant. They were merciless. It was one of those things that you never live down. I would be teased for years over the incident.

  He took me into his room and he told me everything about the sexual experience. It was a very uncomfortable moment. He talked about anatomy. I didn’t like my anatomy and I didn’t like talking about it. I promised myself that I would never have sex. I just wished that my mother were there telling me and that my anatomy were different. I’m not saying that Dad didn’t do well in his discussion. He was clear and very frank and told without prejudice or tainted with religious bias.

  I hoped that we could a have a frank discussion about Dalene with similar frankness. I wanted to know my sister. “David,” he began “before I married your mother, I was married to another woman. It didn’t last long. She and I did not get along. We had a daughter and named her Dalene,” he explained.

  “But dad, why can’t I spend time with my sister?” I queried with desperation.

  “Because,” he started as he tightened and then relaxed his lips, “her mother won’t let her visit,” he explained.

  I could tell he was holding the anger. Dad was quick to anger. He was doing his best to hold it in. And that was all Dad wanted to tell me.

  I would later learn that Dalene’s mother was unusual. The word that most of the family used was “crazy”. I truly admire my Dad for his restraint at the time. Apparently, he didn’t know Dalene all that well. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. Dalene’s mother would not let Dad see her.

  Dalene was instantly added to my list of secret daydreams. A sister.

  Before I turned eleven, mother announced that she was pregnant. The time flew by and before I knew it, my wish was sort of answered. I had a sister. Her name was Charlotte. What a beautiful name it was and what a pretty baby she was. Dad worked late hours often and my mother participated in a local singing group. Mom left me to baby sit several times a week. I enjoyed taking care of Charlotte. She was a good baby. But I never thought that Charlotte and I would ever have much to do with each other. I was eleven years older. I was changing her diapers. I could hardly imagine her as an adult.

  A few years passed and Charlotte was a little 5 year old pixie doll. She had pretty light brown hair and a delightful smile. She and I got along really well but tensions were always high between her and my brother Ben. Charlotte had a trigger that Ben could fire at will. “Mom! Ben is staring at me again!”

  “Cut it out Ben,” my mother would yell from the other room.

  Ring Ring. I picked up the phone. “Hi, can I talk to dad?” Dalene queried. How I wanted to delay passing the call to Dad. I wanted to spend time on the phone getting to know my sister. And the Squirrel was spinning wildly attempting to push daydreams of Dalene and me to the forefront. I forced the thoughts away. “Da ay ad!” I cried, “Tel e phone!” He quickly stepped from the living room to take the call.

  “Hi Dalene, how are you?” he answered. He looked at me as though I should leave the room. I did. Dad talked a short while and then hung up. He took Mom aside and talked to her briefly and secretly. Apparently they had made an agreement. Then Dad gathered us kids together.

  His voice broke slightly as he announced that Dalene was coming to live with us. She was eighteen now. She had fallen on some tough times Dad told us. He advised us that we would treat her with respect and as a member of the family.

  I was elated. I was 16 and she was 18. What a perfect time to have a sister. We could talk about all kinds of things. Dating, music, and everything else that teenagers worry about. I could not wait until she arrived.

  It was but a few days. Before I knew it, she was sitting in a chair in the basement with Dad telling her the ground rules. “You can smoke, but you had better do it outside. I will not allow smoking in the house. I want you to be in by…” and his voice faded as he noticed me peering in on the conversation. I promptly disappeared and I heard him continue.

  I was so anxious to really meet my sister. And I finally did. But we talked only briefly before she announced that she had to leave on a date.

  “Great,” I thought “I’ll never be able to get to know her.” I didn’t know how true those feelings would ring true. She was away all day long and came in only to sleep. I didn’t get a single chance to talk with her. Before I knew it, I stumbled in on a conversation she was having with Dad.

  “Look Dalene, you are 18 and you are of legal age. You are welcome to stay here. If you want to leave and go to Texas you can. But if you do, you’ll be on your own. I don’t want you to come back. I will tell the family not to accept collect calls.”

  She agreed and left. She didn’t even say goodbye to me. My sister had arrived and departed like a summer shower. Dad firmly instructed us not to accept any collect calls from that point forward.

  “Oh Dalene, why would you do this to me?” I lamented. I would probably never, ever see her again.

  Days passed into weeks and a couple of months passed. Dad, a railroad worker, was going to Florida for some company training. He was very excited to go. He had never been on a business trip before. And we were all excited for him. Nothing so exciting had happened in our family before. This was an extraordinary event. He was even going to take a plane!

  “Ring….. Ring….” Dad had been gone a week. Mom and the other two kids were gone somewhere. I ran to pick up the phone.

  “Hi, this is the operator,” a woman said in the stereotypical nasal sound “Will you accept the charges from Dalene…” and before she had finished, I answered “I’m sorry but I’ve been told to not receive any collect calls.” Then I heard Dalene “
Please, oh please hel…” and the operator cut her off “Thank you very much,” she said. The call was troubling to me. She needed help and I had denied the call.

  Dad came home and had exciting news to share with us. He told of his training on the new locomotives which was pretty boring to me but then he went on to tell us about his visit to NASA. I was always interested in space exploration and so I hung on every word. I did tell him that Dalene had called and that I would not accept the charges.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “I told her before she left that we would not take her collect calls.”

  “Okay Dad.”

  Within a few days, we were told that Dalene had been found dead by self inflicted gun shot wound. I was the last to have an opportunity to talk to her in her hour of need. I turned it down. It does not matter that I was told not to take the call. I still felt responsible. “Here is another mark to put in the Cindi sin book.” Dalene, my own sister reached out for help and I turned her down.”

  I’ll never forget it. I’ll never forget my sister. I feel a tremendous loss for the love we never shared. Dalene I feel the guilt for turning my back on you.

  Please forgive me. Rest peacefully.

  The girl that I would marry

  In my junior year of high school I met Charlene. I saw her first in a politics class as she was delivering a paper to the teacher’s desk. She was cute. Her face had classic lines that would never age, her green eyes had an undetermined depth, and her skin had a perfect glow. I wanted to be like her. Squirrel tried in vain to keep me from her with empty denigration.

  “Squirrel, shut up.” I decided I liked Charlene. I wanted to be her friend. “You just want to be HER,” Squirrel derided.

  And that was true enough. I would have been thrilled to be her for just one day.

  It turned out that she was in choir class too. And before I knew it, we were spending our lunch hours in the library talking and laughing with each other. I liked Charlene I truly wanted to be her friend. There were many times when she faced me across the table; I wore my special girl clothes. It was the 70’s and it was so easy to get away with it.