Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl

by Andrea Lawlor

  “Did you ever even tell her about…yourself?” Jane said, one eye on the gas gauge. She had to remember to get gas money from slippery Paul.

  “No,” said Paul. “I’m never going to see her again, so what would have been the point?”

  Was he about to cry? Oh Jesus, thought Jane.

  “Are you going to change back before we get home?” she said.

  Paul looked at her through smudged eyeliner.

  “Yeah,” he said, balling up the sweatshirt into a pillow between his shoulder and the car door. He closed his eyes against further harassment, like a morally superior child.

  Jane turned on the radio, bored of all the tapes they’d brought. She flipped from “I’m the Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised” to the tail end of a program on Exodus and New Hope, two quote-unquote ex-gay ministries. Wasn’t New Hope a gay resort town? From Grand Haven to Gary, Jane shaped a few murky thoughts under the provisional title “Mama’s Boys and Truck Stops: Queering the Evangelical.” She really should have done cultural studies.

  III.

  Paul balanced lightly on the black rubber floor of the Cambus as the bored driver hit potholes and took corners too quickly. Paul was a city person, a bus surfer. He scanned the passengers, assessed then turned away from the high-school kids at the back. He knew in the way he knew things that the kids were discussing him, gathering themselves into a single brave approach. The bravest broke from the pack and kicked Paul’s left boot. Paul had seen a lot of fuck-you-freak moves before but he’d never seen boot-kicking. It was amateur; maybe they were in junior high. Harassed by junior-high-school kids—an extra dose of humiliation.

  “Hey,” said the kid. “What are you? You some kind of freak?”

  There it was. Paul didn’t answer. If he was with Tony Pinto, oh, the saucy trouble they’d rain down on these assholes! Tony Pinto would definitely agree, yes, they were freaks. He’d blow a kiss, or charge the kids like a bull, or both.

  “¿Habla español, freak?” The kid’s Spanish came by way of a high school in Dubuque or Ottumwa, Paul could tell, even though his own Spanish was from the movies (hasta la vista, baby) and the subway platform (¡cuidado, maricón!). Paul sneaked a look at the front kid’s black tee shirt, which boasted a big American flag. These definitely weren’t Iowa City kids. He wished he had a good comeback, in Spanish or English. What was he going to say, “Actually I’m half-Turkish, or maybe Greek, but my mom isn’t really forthcoming about my biological father and maybe I’m just really dark Black Irish, but what if I was Latina slash o? Anyway, by the way, yes, I am a giant queer who threatens your pathetic sense of knowing anything about the world, tiny asshole?” Not catchy.

  The kid stepped up to Paul, leading with his chest and sneering handsomely. The other kids moved closer to watch. Paul tried to catch the eye of the only other passenger, a pink blonde girl in a pink sweatshirt with darker pink plaid Greek letters, but the girl kept her eyes to the front.

  “Sorry,” Paul said, as the bus lurched to a stop across from the bank. “No habla español.”

  He hopped off the bus just as the doors closed; he’d go see what was new at the comics shop, or see if anything good had come in to Savage Salvage. And look, there was Jane on the sidewalk by the bank machine, looking, in repose, uncharacteristically indecisive and melancholy.

  Paul, in a burst of relief, ran gaily across the intersection, dodging cars, and throwing his arm around her.

  “What are you doing? Let’s go shopping!” he said, in a tone that refused to brook dissent. He was in very high spirits, he discovered, and he didn’t feel like discussing his personal experiences with racism and homophobia.

  * * *

  ×

  A contractor and his wife tried for many years to have a child, but no child came. They tried and tried. They wanted a baby very badly, and finally the contractor’s wife’s belly grew large. They rejoiced, proclaiming their happiness and good fortune to all who would listen. When the baby came, on a crisp early December morning, the contractor and his wife gazed in wonder at its beauty. They talked of nothing but their baby and their happiness.

  “What a well-formed child,” they said to each other. “He looks just like you! How strong, how handsome, how sweet-tempered is our baby boy! How intelligently he plays with his toys, how easily he takes to the breast, how peacefully he sleeps through each and every night!”

  The contractor and his wife were very pleased with their baby and began to plan a party to celebrate. They invited all their relatives and friends and coworkers from far and wide to gaze upon their beautiful child.

  Around this time, a diplomat from the nearby fairy court was returning to his Queen in shame at having failed on his first mission of state. He had been entrusted to negotiate a détente with the next court over. This court, historically friendly to his own, had nevertheless offered succor to an insubordinate water sprite, a particularly belligerent naiad who had used rough language to address his Queen on one of her jaunts to the mineral springs. The insult may or may not have had something to do with certain requests her Highness had made of the naiad’s consort. The neighboring court’s Queen not only refused to make the naiad apologize or deliver her into the fairy diplomat’s custody, but had even intimated that his own Queen was at fault.

  The fairy diplomat nudged the haunches of his squirrel, and she slowed to a trot. His Queen was known to possess a temper; no need to hurry back. As they passed by the happy family’s cottage, the fairy diplomat overheard the contractor’s wife speaking on the phone to a baby-modeling agency. Perhaps all was not lost. He hurried back to court with a new plan to distract his Queen.

  The fairy diplomat knew he must act immediately, as the following night was winter solstice. The Queen’s ball began at sundown, and she expected tributes before midnight. The fairy diplomat went round the forest from tree trunk to cave pool until he found what he was looking for: a particularly mischievous young fairy who, as it happened, was part water sprite. The Queen had hidden her little daughter on an island in the forest lake, where she was being raised by a kindly old otter. He caught the young fairy attempting to escape her nursemaid, who threw up her paws in disgust.

  The fairy diplomat whistled a little tune, pleased with his own efficiency, as he swaddled the fairy child up in a large leaf to transport her to the happy family’s cottage. He swapped out the children, and hurried back to the ball to present the human infant to his Queen.

  A few days later, the contractor and his wife began to notice something strange about their baby, who was still beautiful but whose temper seemed to have spoiled. Now the baby cried and cried, and the contractor and his wife couldn’t sleep. Now the baby fussed and scowled and refused to nurse. The baby became more and more difficult as he grew older, howling his displeasure when the contractor’s wife tried to dress him in a tiny football costume, drinking only strawberry milk, singing strange little songs which unnerved the old woman who ran a day care from her house a few blocks away.

  There’s something wrong with that baby, thought the contractor, and he blamed his wife, for her family had always seemed odd to him. A few months later, the contractor left his wife and their squalling child, moved across the sea, and was never heard from again.

  * * *

  ×

  Paul was broke, as usual, and October rent was coming due.

  He sat on the edge of a red-brick planter on the ped mall, next to the coffee cart, and sucked his free iced latte through a straw. Paul had reciprocal hookups all over town, a perk of bartending or personal charm, he wasn’t sure which. Alan at the coffee cart was one of Paul’s prized contacts.

  It was early, obscenely early. 9 AM. The braggart trees flaunted their two weeks of red and orange, the crisp air busked for attention, shop owners unlocked their doors simultaneously as if in a Busby Berkeley number. The entire town conspired to pretend it was fall, right here in Ri
ver City.

  Paul had woken up fourteen minutes ago on the fifth floor of the Holiday Inn, in the room of the Illinois assistant men’s swimming coach. He had sneaked out like a Russian spy. Two of his favorite parts of tricking were sneaking and seeing the town at unexpected times.

  Another reason to leave was that he couldn’t really afford to go out to breakfast, and he couldn’t count on the assistant coach paying—he hadn’t been a very good tipper at the bar the night before.

  Paul looked over at Alan, his scruffy red beard and lanky indie-rock body, an ectomorph in faded black jeans and a Reid Fleming, World’s Toughest Milkman tee shirt. They’d almost messed around one drunken Tuesday night last spring, after beers at George’s. Alan had asked Paul lots of questions about Being Gay and then casually invited him back to his house to watch a bootleg of Superstar. Paul had been legitimately tired, said no, and had immediately regretted it. At least he was still getting free coffees, though, which he might not be if they’d fooled around.

  Sucking on his straw, Paul sidled up to the coffee cart. Alan looked up from cleaning the espresso machine after the first morning rush.

  “Hey man, you ever see any Kenneth Anger?” he said, in his urgent low husk-voice.

  “Sure, like Scorpio Rising?” said Paul. “When I lived in New York I saw the retrospective at the Anthology.”

  “I just saw Invocation of My Demon Brother. That shit is out in the stratosphere.”

  Paul hadn’t seen it.

  “You ever seen any Jonas Mekas?” he countered.

  Alan packed espresso into a little metal cup and hooked the cup into the machine with a tidy wrist flick.

  “Yeah, I saw this really—” Alan said, holding a cup of milk over the piston as the machine roared.

  “What?” said Paul.

  “Here you go, man.” Alan presented Paul with another latte, not even asked for. Just bonus.

  “Thanks,” said Paul.

  A film grad student Paul and Jane called “the French girl” stood behind him. They didn’t know her name, but she reminded Paul of Jean Seberg in Breathless, with her short hair and her signature striped sailor shirt. Diane had a striped shirt. Alan was already talking to the French Girl, done with Paul. No chance to impress him with having seen Jonas Mekas eat pierogis at the Kiev.

  Paul decided to head home; he didn’t have to be anywhere until the afternoon and there was a chance Christopher had food. As he walked down South Dubuque he passed the unopened Prairie Lights, the unopened all-pasta restaurant, the unopened Deadwood (where he’d spent many an afternoon playing pinball). The street was empty and the buildings low, like in a Western. Paul walked chest first, hands in pockets, his legs wide as he could make them, checking his stance for cowboy in the black windows of the storefronts. He assessed his financial situation.

  He had $3.85 in the bank and $35 in cash in his wallet. He’d spent $50 on Polaroid film and copies for his zine, which he’d called Polydoris Perversity and which maybe hadn’t been such a good investment. He had copies on consignment at Prairie Lights and at the zine store in the Hall Mall, but he wouldn’t see that money for weeks, if not months. His rent was $242.50, due in eleven days. He got paid weekly from the club, which totaled up to about $25 before taxes, plus another $60 for cleaning the bar, which came to about $75 a week, take home. He was rounding down to avoid surprises, but the outlook wasn’t good.

  The bar was a gamble. On a good Friday night he might take home $100 after tipping out the barbacks. On a bad Wednesday night, $15. On a really good night, like Iowa Pride or if July Fourth fell on a Saturday, he could walk out with ten twenties in his wallet. Thing was, he only had two shifts a week right now. When the club was busy, Paul bettered his odds by putting money in the register without ringing in all the drinks. When he counted his tips after close, he’d put in five ones, remove a twenty, and so on, until he’d balanced his drawer. He could easily pocket an extra twenty or thirty bucks this way. His philosophy was, keep the theft petty and regular, a ten here, a twenty there, so as to prevent anomalies, which is generally what led to people getting busted. Paul could do this arithmetic fast and casually, under any manager’s gimlet eye. He was fairly sure Greg, the manager, had his finger in the drawer as well, but they never discussed it. Greg was a thespian when not at the bar, active in community theater. At 5'3", he was usually cast as “the son” or “the best friend.” As a result, Greg advocated tirelessly for shows like The Fantasticks or Pippin, in which he was assured lots of stage time. His big coup was playing Bobby in Company, an actual romantic lead. Paul had gone to see that show with the other bartenders (to be nice—he wasn’t into musicals) and they all joked for days about Greg’s big Leading Man moment as a closet case.

  Paul felt pleasurably tall and even hunky around Greg. Greg had one of those faggy baritone speaking voices (though he sang tenor, with a British schoolboy inflection), a military brush cut, big chest muscles and skinny little legs, and generally wore either a crushed velvet or a metallic short-sleeved button-down. 1993 is too soon for ’80s retro, Paul thought. We’re doing ’70s now.

  But Greg was a good manager; he protected all his no-good workers from the closeted absentee owner. The owner left them to their own devices in most ways, primarily musically. Paul couldn’t have worked in a regular gay bar with the booming techno all night long. He’d much rather the Pet Shop Boys or the disco divas the DJ threw as bones to the queens. Brian, the straight DJ, drove to Chicago a few times a month to check out the record stores and listen to house music in the clubs on Halsted. They played Chicago-style house at the club, lots of traumatized ladies who were going to survive. Greg was particularly fond of Liza Minnelli remixes, which Brian played when he was getting ready to ask for a night off.

  Paul had the two nights at the club and the five days, Thursday through Monday, he went in to clean before they opened. That meant $6 an hour before tax, and he had to punch in, so he couldn’t drag it out too long if anybody else was there, which he tried to avoid. He could get there any time before four and have enough time to clean before they opened, but if he was bartending he liked to go home, take a shower, and put on an outfit, so those days he cleaned in the mornings. Afternoons he’d help Greg roll kegs to the walk-in behind the bar, which added a half-hour to the clock. Greg was always happy to have extra help, and to dish about the others. Like Paul, Greg had worked his way up from barback and still clung to his underdog resentment of princessy bartenders who wouldn’t do side work.

  Some days Brian or another DJ (like the dyke who played New Wave hits on Wednesdays) would be there, putting together a set. Paul tried to time it so he was alone. That way he could make mixtapes in the DJ booth, mop and wax the dance floor without trapping anyone behind the bar, sweep the rugs properly, steal a six of beer or some large cans of tomato juice or toilet paper, fix himself elaborate Bloody Marys, eat potato chips and olives, talk on the phone while prepping the Bloody Mary mix, roll up his shirt sleeves and pretend to be a sailor in Querelle while mopping, listen to Liza Minnelli remixes without being called a hypocrite, and/or bring friends or tricks to hang out and play records while he worked.

  Paul got paid Wednesdays, which meant he had two checks from the bar before rent, and three nights of tips, but those usually melted away. He also had two nights washing dishes at the Linn Street, which was the fanciest restaurant in Iowa City. It paid a little better, $5.50 plus dinner plus a share of the waitstaff’s tips, usually an extra $15 a night off the books—

  As he walked past the chemistry building and hit Linn Street, Paul stopped calculating. He found himself standing in front of the Hamburg Inn. He was too hungry to wait until he got home, and what if Christopher hadn’t gone shopping? He sat at the counter and eyed the staff. They had a newish rockabilly girl and mostly dykes in the kitchen. No Maisie, thank god. He nodded to the platinum-haired short-order cook and liberated a Press-Citizen f
rom a recently abandoned booth. He felt an amiable indignation while skimming through an editorial blasting the socialist on the city council. He imagined what Diane would say. He’d had one postcard from her, vintage from Niagara Falls, the message written in boyish block letters: “I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone…” Postmarked Syracuse. An announcement or an opening, he wasn’t sure. He’d memorized the words, but had no way to write back. Which made it seem more like an announcement, when he thought it through.

  The pink-haired waitress tapped her pen on the counter. Paul looked up.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Whaddya want?” she said, snapping her gum and looking bored, which thrilled Paul.

  “Two egg special,” he said, adding a little stutter to the “special” and looking up shyly, like a country boy, he thought. I should go thrifting today and look for some bibs, maybe a cowboy shirt.