Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl

by Andrea Lawlor

  “Special ends at eight,” she said, gesturing with her eyebrows toward the clock above the booths. “It’s lunchtime.”

  “Two eggs scrambled, then,” said Paul, put in his proper citified, sissified place. “And coffee.” He wished for the Times and a cigarette. He could be a famous director, just in from the coast to scout locations for a blockbuster.

  “Oh, could I get some hash browns too?” he called to the waitress in the kitchen.

  After breakfast and tip, Paul had $31 in his pocket and the smell of kitchen grease on his denim jacket and in his hair. He headed home for a shower. Maybe later he could sell some tapes downtown. Or he could butch up, lie to the plasma bank, sell his gay blood. He wondered if his blood would give him away, had any special properties. It wasn’t worth the risk, the blood bank didn’t pay that well anyway.

  He walked north on Linn, then cut over through an alley to Gilbert. The alleys between houses were nighttime magic—stolen kisses, mescaline, slugs of Jim Beam shared with people who “just wanted to talk.” He wished he could show Diane the alleys, but he was trying not to think about Diane.

  He’d been a boy since he’d gotten back, a fag, himself, just normal. He was a free agent; it was hunting season. He’d changed a bit here and there in the last month but he’d always done that. Sometimes in the showers in high school he’d make himself bigger but not too big. Or later, the times he’d fucked guys, to make his penis fit into someone in the most agreeable way. He hadn’t even known what he was doing, not really. He thought everyone must do it: stay small in dicey situations, get big on cue. If he concentrated he could do these things through force of will. When he stopped concentrating, regular life resumed: inconvenient boners, whiskey dick, being not-so-hung. Sometimes lately to please a guy Paul would sneakily inquire about fetishes. Like big balls? Done. But he hadn’t been Polly since the last day at Michigan. He’d let himself sink back into his normal body and his normal life once they crossed the Indiana state line. The experiment was over, except for the photo shoots for his zine, and that was art and so didn’t count.

  Paul emerged from the shady alley onto Gilbert, into sunlight, and walked home in a funk. He really should get a Walkman, he thought. Maybe Kostas or his mom would buy him one for Christmas, if he ever called either of them. Or maybe he should ask for a bike. All this walking was giving him way too much time to think.

  When he got home, he saw the previous day’s mail stacked on the kitchen table along with a pink Post-It from Christopher itemizing Paul’s share of the utilities. He ignored the note in favor of the pile’s true bounty—a postcard of a whale in midair. He turned the card over and read “think of me by the river I’ll think of you by the sea” and underneath, RETURN: GENERAL DELIVERY PROVINCETOWN MA 02657. An opening, he thought. Definitely.

  * * *

  ×

  Paul sat on his bedroom floor, circled by unsteady stacks of his and Christopher’s CDs and tapes. He wanted to explain something to Diane in the only way he knew how. Christopher’s music collection ranged from Patty Griffin all the way to Emmylou Harris, plus a few obvious disco compilations. Christopher was more of a lesbian than any actual lesbian Paul knew. He needed Jane for this. Paul packed up his stacks and headed over to Jane’s on Christopher’s bike.

  Jane wasn’t home, so he let himself in with her emergency key and plopped down on the ironic purple shag carpet in front of the stereo system. Much better. Jane had tape-to-tape, for one thing, and lots of vinyl, and everything the Pixies had ever released. Fags 0, Dykes 1.

  “Ooh,” he said into the empty apartment, fondling the Bikini Kill/Huggy Bear split LP before succumbing to the distraction of Jane’s mighty cassingle collection.

  Diane was definitely going to get the message: Paul was fun and intense. He lifted out his most precious mixtapes from his backpack and lined them up next to Jane’s music. Was it cheesy to pass Jane’s superior collection off as his own? Or was it a sign of his dedication? He could also go down to the club during the day and use some of the vinyl there, if he wanted dancier songs; that would be really intrepid but maybe too faggy? Yeah, too faggy. He wanted to give Diane things she couldn’t get herself, to turn her on to new things, to share his access, to provide, to shore up his girlfriendable-ness.

  He had 90- and 120-minute tapes, and Jane had some 60s, but you had to be really stuck to use a 60 anymore. And weren’t the 120-minute tapes supposed to be of inferior quality? He’d bought the most expensive ones available, German-made.

  SIDE A:

  I Am a Poseur - X-Ray Spex

  Pretty on the Inside - Hole

  Cherry Bomb - The Runaways

  What’s Inside a Girl? - The Cramps

  Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill

  Pumping (My Heart) - Patti Smith

  Golden Thing - Throwing Muses

  Rid of Me - PJ Harvey

  Touch Your Woman - Dolly Parton

  If I Was Your Girlfriend - Prince

  Beauty and the Beast - David Bowie

  That’s Really Super, Supergirl - XTC

  People Are Strange - Echo and the Bunnymen

  Paul was happy with Side A, though not entirely sure about that last track. Also, maybe “Me-Jane” would have been a better PJ Harvey track after “Golden Thing” because of the beat, but the lyrics weren’t romantic. Paul knew that some people didn’t consider the lyrics when making mixtapes, but he always did. Occasionally he’d choose a song for ironic purposes or to say the opposite of what the lyrics said or for litote (for instance, “Rid of Me”) but always lyrics were involved in the decision. Paul disliked instrumental music. He wanted stories, all the time. He wished he could make a tape of all the moments from films he wanted to show her, but how was that even possible? Maybe if he hooked up Jane’s VCR to another VCR and rented all the movies…He felt that old familiar electricity surging up in him, a desire to accumulate and then display a complete collection. He imposed a small measure of self-control and returned his attention to the mixtape.

  He would listen to Side A to check the flow, to subject himself to its momentum before he started Side B. Start out strong, pumping, then go for counterpoint with Dolly, then take it to a sexy place, but not for too long (keep the tension), then—maybe the Bowie was too much? He wasn’t sure about any of the last three songs, really, but sometimes the songs you weren’t sure about were the genius choices. No, he couldn’t dismantle the tape now. He made a sandwich, leaving Jane with one slice of bread. She might not notice; she was kind of rich.

  Paul tried to imagine Diane listening to the tape on auto-reverse, driving down some street in Provincetown, maybe driving to her new job. Okay, what should the first song be on the second side? You’ve got that moment where the tape reverses, the antici…pation, and so the first song on the second side is the heart of the tape. By that point, you’re committed; you’ve listened to an entire side and you’ve entered the world of the tape—you’ve waited, and what are you waiting for? He decided to go for a declaration. Forget subtlety. His tape would be a manifesto of his readiness. He wanted to be Diane’s girlfriend, whatever that meant.

  SIDE B:

  Kinda I Want To - NIN

  Birdhouse in Your Soul - They Might Be Giants

  Take Me With U - Prince

  Paul stopped. Something was wrong. He didn’t want to seem queeny, male, obvious. This side was all dudes so far. Jane had a few compilation CDs, so Paul scanned the track listings until he hit gold: Jane Wiedlin from the Go-Gos. Apparently she was a PETA person. He cued up the tape:

  Fur - Jane Wiedlin

  Halfway through, Paul knew the song was too campy; Diane might think he was making fun of her feelings about animals. He rewound. He could do better. He retrieved a bag of Oreos from Jane’s cabinet and took stock of the situation.

  Fur - Jane Wiedlin

  Paul considered a tape Tony Pinto had
made him, so long ago. Two years ago. Was it entirely ethical to copy a song, or multiple songs, from a mixtape someone else had made you? What if you changed the order? What if the person who made you the mix had copied at least half the songs from Just Say Yes, Volume III: Just Say Mao, which you later discovered while looking through their CDs? What if the person who made you the mixtape was in love with you but you weren’t in love with them? What if the person who made the tape was in love with you and you had been in love with them, maybe, but you weren’t anymore? Was it really even okay to copy any songs from a mixtape? Paul decided it was okay if the tape had been given to you in the spirit of true love and had then become part of who you now were. It was not just okay, it was in fact crucial, then, to share this with your new love, so they could understand you. He put the Joan Armatrading on, wondering what Tony Pinto would say about Diane. Or about Paul’s new look. What would Diane say about Tony Pinto? Some things were perhaps best not discussed.

  I’m Lucky - Joan Armatrading

  Caribou - The Pixies

  (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman - Carole King

  Kangaroo - This Mortal Coil

  Hounds of Love - Kate Bush

  Witchcraft - Book of Love

  Freedom ’90 - George Michael

  Kool Thing - Sonic Youth

  The last song fit exactly on the tape. If that wasn’t a sign, Paul didn’t know what was. Diane was a Kool Thing. She did walk like a panther. They both were like fuck you to male white corporate oppression. Paul thought about how hot they looked together in the Polaroids they’d taken at Michigan. He couldn’t believe he was one of the hot girls in the pictures but there he was, four times a lady.

  He played the finished tape all the way through one last time while hunched over Jane’s kitchen counter with an X-acto knife, rubber cement, and a 1955 Playboy, collaging two tiny Bettie Pages onto a campfire scene for the tape cover. He listed the song titles on the cassette itself, as he’d seen art students do, using a fine-point silver paint pen, and on the outside of the case he carefully printed the words “VOLUME ONE.” He immediately second-guessed this title and swapped out the case for a fresh one, on which he carefully printed the words “FOR DIANE.” Better not to be quite so obvious, he thought.

  * * *

  ×

  Saturday night the club was still dead at 11:30, which was very bad what with the rent situation. Where was everyone? Paul shorted the register with every other shots order, but even so, he’d be lucky to leave with fifty bucks. Greg was in a crappy mood; he’d already sniped at the barback for not cleaning plastic tumblers well enough, refused to provide the bouncer her traditional rum and coke, and forced Brian to play Erasure twice.

  “Whoever closed last night really screwed us all over for tonight,” Greg said.

  “Wasn’t me,” Paul said.

  “Oh, I know that, honey. You always leave everything just so.”

  Good. Paul couldn’t afford to get on Greg’s bad side. Greg might decide they didn’t need two bartenders and “give” Paul the rest of the night off. And what would he do then, go home? Linger among the trolls? Check out some other bar in town?

  Where was Jane? he wondered. Probably with that barista, cuddling somewhere. Lesbians. He stretched the bar phone’s cord into the keg closet and called Christopher, who refused to leave his studies and come entertain Paul. Lesbian, thought Paul.

  He returned to his place at the long bar, wiping down the steel-top with the diligence of a midshipman. He poured plastic cups of lite beer, a few pitchers, five or six Long Island Iced Teas. Paul wished someone, anyone, would order a Negroni, or a Manhattan, anything besides these endless draws and well gin-and-tonics. He ducked into the DJ booth, startling Brian, who palmed his lit joint with the studied casualness of a varsity athlete.

  “It’s just me,” said Paul, flipping through a milk crate of EPs.

  “What’s up, man?” said Brian, exhaling a miniature fog system. “Wanna be DJ for a while?”

  “Play something good,” said Paul, brandishing the Yeastie Girls/Consolidated 12" of “You Suck.”

  Brian shook his head. Paul held out the disc in an Oliver Twist pose.

  “Not for this crowd,” Brian said, unsheathing and brandishing a record. “They don’t deserve anything good. I’m going to punish them.”

  Paul left the DJ booth. “I’m Gonna Get You” turned into “Rhythm Is a Dancer.”

  “Brian is trying to kill us,” said James, the barback, looking up from the sink.

  “I know,” said Paul. “It’s homophobia.”

  James swiftly dipped a succession of sticky tumblers onto the rotating brush head of the bar sink, like a faggier Little Tramp.

  “Will you make me a Long Island, darling?” he said. “It’s medicinal; I need to dull the pain.”

  Paul lined up the rum, gin, tequila, triple sec, vodka, gin, and sour mix on the bar. He wiped down each bottle after tipping it into the shaker, admiring the precision of his wristwork. Was there any other field in which his god-given ability to pour exactly 1.5 fluid ounces would be so appreciated or so useful? He decided that for the rest of the night he’d concentrate on bettering himself as a bartender. Maybe with enough practice he’d be able to bartend somewhere glamorous, like France. Or somewhere English-speaking and glamorous. He couldn’t at the moment think of where that might be.

  “You forgot the Coke,” said James.

  “It’s better that way,” said Paul. “It’s a North Shore Iced Tea.” Most of bartending was a con job.

  “Coke,” insisted James, twirling his platinum locks and pursing his lips. “Hamptons-style.”

  Paul knew James had never been east of St. Louis but subscribed to New York magazine and the Village Voice, and was disdainful of Paul’s decision to leave The City for Iowa.

  A pack of new people came in, refugees from another bar or party. The club was open until 2; Paul might salvage the night yet.

  The herd clustered at Brian’s bar, and Paul serviced the stragglers, mostly hard-up straight guys who’d come with their ambivalent, upwardly mobile girlfriends, who’d followed their fag friends, who’d needed a ride or to feel less gay. And in all of that, no one cute. Paul poured a round of Goldschläger for four of James’s friends, and made a joke about golden showers, a joke he’d made countless times and which never failed to titillate the hairdressers.

  “Oh bartender,” called a Hepburnish voice attached to a ten-dollar bill. “I’d like a Negroni.”

  Paul looked up. Jane, of course, dear good Jane, making him believe in fairies, in the silver screen.

  “I’m actually out of Campari,” said Paul, pouring her a stiff top-shelf lime rickey. “But thank you for asking.”

  “No matter,” said Jane, inhaling through the cigarette holder she was affecting for the evening. “And you’re really going to thank me in about a minute, when you see who walks in.”

  Paul gave her his raffish Sal Mineo smile and waved away her money. He glanced at the door. Maybe the waifs? Those taxi-driving brothers were still on his list, though he wasn’t sure which one he liked better. He actually couldn’t tell them apart.

  Paul pushed plastic beer cups down on the automatic brushes two at a time. Where was James? This was the barback’s job.

  “Hey Jane,” he heard, as he piled the clean wet cups into a tower. Something snagged in his peripheral vision and he finally looked up.

  And then there was Diane, out of context and across the bar from him. She narrowed her eyes at Paul in confusion. She looked like she was going to speak but then didn’t.

  Paul wiped his soapy hands on his pants.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” said Diane. “Polly?”

  * * *

  ×

  Now Paul had to impossibly finish the night with needy drinkers suddenly five d
eep at the bar, the tide of camp squeals and synthesized beats rising over his head, the boredom drinks he’d downed earlier cottonballing his response time, and Diane staring at him across two feet of burnished steel—staring maybe not in a good way.

  She was beautiful, he thought, with a pinch of anger. He had decided not to remember how beautiful she was, and now he could see her quietly standing in an entirely different plane from the rest of the club, one universe to the left, the universe he’d left behind somewhere on I-80. She stood and stared at Paul and then at Jane, who widened her eyes at Paul over the rim of her tumbler.

  “Diane, wait,” he said. “James, can you cover for me? Five minutes, I promise.”

  He poured a double shot of whiskey, ducked under the bar top, and pushed through the swarm toward her, brushing past the ass-grabs of his regulars, drink held high. He dreaded another dramatic revelation scene like the one he’d had with Jane, the kind of scene he always fast-forwarded. But he had to make Diane understand.

  “Is it you?” Diane said.

  Paul led her outside, and around back, behind the warehouse.

  He handed her the soda tumbler of whiskey.

  Diane leaned against the corrugated aluminum siding, swallowed the whole drink and bared her teeth, tough-guy style.

  Paul shivered in his thin black Pat Benatar Get Nervous ’83 World Tour tee shirt, trying to resist the pull of Diane. He went to kiss her back into their own good world, but she stepped away.

  He knew her feelings about bisexuality, her pride in her Gold Star status. She was seeing him now, nothing he could do about it. He concentrated on changing: emerged his breasts, receded the lump in his pants, drifted his mild soft stubble into the lightest peach fuzz.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m like you.” He took her hands and placed them on his soft soft cheeks. She touched his face forensically, like an insurance inspector. He searched her face back. What was she thinking? She looked like Colossus, her face and body turned to steel. Where was his Peter Rasputin? he thought. Where are you in there?