Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl

by Andrea Lawlor

  * * *

  ×

  “So you’ve been with Derek for what?” Robin asked.

  “Like four months?” Paul paused on the stepladder, rainbow wind-sock in hand.

  Robin had stopped by the store just as Derek was leaving, which made Paul nervous. He didn’t like them to talk to each other, preferred to keep his worlds separate.

  “You haven’t told him, have you?” Robin watched Paul rearrange the window display, occasionally handing him a miniature disco ball or novelty penis snow globe.

  “Does Jack know?” Paul countered.

  “Of course,” said Robin.

  “Hmm,” said Paul.

  * * *

  ×

  Derek decided to quit his museum job and start a dance company. He had, he told Paul, reached the age of majority in regards to some money left him by his grandfather, a rich industrialist, and he’d grown weary of office life. Derek had always insisted on paying 70/30 when they went out for dinner or to Russian River for the weekend—“the socialist payment plan,” he’d called it, officially proposing this arrangement to Paul. Paul hadn’t known what to think but now realized Derek must be rich in a way Paul hadn’t imagined. Paul liked Russian River, lounging in hot tubs while older men admired him and Derek from a respectful distance.

  He’d certainly found himself more and more in the company of boys who’d attended better all-boys prep schools than he, better colleges—boys who thought of Paul as poor and casually fetishized his “working-class authenticity,” boys who sold their Ivy League mouths for life experience and coke money, boys with emergency J. Press suits in their cedar-lined closets, boys with five-year plans. Paul realized he’d been cast as David Copperfield to Derek’s Steerforth and worked to bolster this perception among these boys, Derek’s friends, presenting himself as the hardscrabble, up-by-the-bootstraps, disadvantaged intellectual, a role he’d first auditioned for with the young professors at Iowa, now on its national tour.

  For Paul’s twenty-third birthday, Derek threw him a dinner party but didn’t give him a present. Weird, thought Paul, his feelings hurt. He drank more wine than he had in months.

  “Bedtime for you,” said Derek.

  Paul let himself be walked into Derek’s bedroom. He saw an envelope on the bed and flared with disappointment. He liked to have a box to open, preferably multiple boxes.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Open it,” said Derek.

  Paul sat on the bed and opened the envelope. Derek had drawn, beautifully, a picture of Paul’s little pig-dog Aloysius. Who knew Derek could draw?

  “I want you to have what you need, Paul,” said Derek.

  Inside the card was a check for $500.

  “You can pay off your tuition bill and transfer to State.”

  Paul traced the drawing of the pig-dog with his index finger. The picture would have been enough, he thought. Maybe in a frame.

  * * *

  ×

  Once Paul passed Robin on Castro in the company of Jack Manjoyne. Paul did not stop to say hello, as Jack was discoursing on what seemed to be an important subject, and Robin was listening attentively, even deferentially. Robin looked so small and young—such smooth cheeks, such thick eyelashes, an Ivory-soap urchin. Their eyes met for a second and Robin smiled at Paul, then turned toward Jack.

  * * *

  ×

  Paul liked how Ruffles kept so many plants in the living room, watered them and kept them alive. The air smelled better than normal air, wetter and heavy, the air was like drinking cake. Ruffles was a good person.

  Paul leaned back on the couch and wrapped the neon-pink-and-black afghan around him. He felt fresh after a shower. People said you could get lost in California, never come back to reality; people warned about lotus-eating. Paul thought maybe he didn’t mind so much. He could stay here forever, and time would stop, and he wouldn’t have to choose anything.

  * * *

  ×

  A few days later, Paul pushed the uncashed check through Derek’s mail slot with a little note. He walked out of Derek’s building into the cool bright light. He had practically the whole day free until his shift and the crackling air smelled like flowers. He walked and walked, looking up at the attic windows and roofs of renovated Victorians, the treetops, a congregation of pigeons on the web of train wires over Market Street, the big Western sky. Sunlight seeped into his head, sunlight down through his eyes, down his throat, and spreading out. He came to Duboce Park and lay down on the grass, his head on his backpack and his fingers in the dirt. He saw a little kid in a faded tie-dye call out nonsense words to a bird-nosed man. He saw a crusty spare-changer share a sandwich with her yellow dog. He saw a handsome older gent running for the train. He saw the counter girl from Flore, reading a paperback copy of A Wizard of Earthsea on the bench. He saw a violet pushing up through a disintegrating Muni transfer. He saw the city, as good-smelling and various as himself.

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to all workers, teachers, and fellows of both RADAR Labs and the Lambda Literary Foundation for creating true communities of queer and trans writers. My most special thanks to Michelle Tea, Ali Liebegott, and Beth Pickens of RADAR Labs, and to Jenn Reese, Tony Valenzuela, William Johnson, and Sue Landers of Lambda.

  Thank you to my esteemed teachers Chris Bachelder, Dodie Bellamy, Jedediah Berry, Samuel R. Delany, Peter Gizzi, Noy Holland, Kevin Killian, Kevin Kopelson, Sabina Murray, Sandra Newman, Carter Sickels, James Tate, Carla Trujillo, and Dara Wier. And thank you to my students, who teach me what writers can do.

  Thank you to my beloved Rescue Press family: Hilary Plum and Zach Savich—most thoughtful, generous, patient editors and dear friends—and also, always, my deep gratitude to Sevy Perez, Caryl Pagel, Danny Khalastchi, and Alyssa Perry—what good fortune I have had to be in your company. And thank you to Jeremy Wang-Iverson of Vesto PR, you hero!

  And thank you to my lovely new traveling companions! Thank you to PJ Mark, the coolest agent in the world, Virgil to my Dante. Thank you also to Ian Bonaparte and everyone at Janklow Nesbit; to the sage Jason Richman and to Nora Henrie and everyone at UTA. Thank you to everyone at Vintage, beginning with Margaux Weisman, who first took a chance on me, and also Maria Goldverg, my captain!, deftly steering this ship. I’m grateful for the quick thinking and dedication of Julie Ertl and Kate Runde, and to be reunited with my dear Barbara Richard and Charlotte Strick—who would have thought?

  Thank you to Eileen Myles, Maggie Nelson, and Michelle Tea, benefactors and sources of inspiration.

  Thank you to my beloved comrades Cathy Halley, Sara Jaffe, and M. Milks for reading so many drafts and talking through so many big and small decisions with me.

  For excellent advice in various pinches, thank you to Alexander Chee, Naomi Jackson, Tayari Jones, Adam Reed, Sarah Schulman, Michael Taeckens, Lindsay Williams, and Rebecca Wolff.

  Thank you to all the reviewers, list-makers, interviewers, editors, curators, reading-series organizers, and booksellers who’ve given this book its life in the world—I appreciate your labor every day!

  Thank you to all the workers at Mugshots, Amherst Coffee, the Haymarket, the Roost, the Woodstar, SIP, Rao’s, Northampton Coffee, Thirsty Mind, and the Smith College Student Union Café; to the librarians at the Jones Library, the Frost Library, the W.E.B. DuBois Library, the Neilson Library, the Williston Memorial Library, and the Free Library of Philadelphia. Thank you to all independent booksellers and librarians everywhere!

  Thank you of course to all the friends and family who’ve read drafts, fed and housed me, encouraged and sustained me over the years: Samuel Ace, E.R. Anderson, Ari Banias, Emily Barton, Julia Bloch, Jennifer Blowdryer, Kera Bolonik, Cooper Lee Bombardier, Tisa Bryant, Marcy Coburn, Stephanie Corrales, Bobby Cortez, Christy Crutchfield, Cedre Csillagi, Dennis Cunningham, Luke Dancona, Roberta Danza, Steve Dillon, St
eve Dolph, Mark Ewert, Michael Fauver, Margaret Foreman, Judy Frank, Elizabeth Freeman, Mel Friedling, Melisse Gelula, Ilana Gerjoy, Tracy Hobson, Mary Hoeffel, Xylor Jane, Tara Jepsen, Tim Jones-Yelvington, R.E. Katz, John Krokidas, Zack Leven, Jeremy Leven, Robin Coste Lewis, Luce Lincoln, Gustavo Llarull, Amy Martin, Anna-Marie McLemore, Delia Mellis, Miranda Mellis, Dori Midnight, EE Miller, Sarah Miller, Rick Moody, Eileen Moyer, Sonny Nordmarken, Miller Oberman, Katherine O’Callaghan, Alvin Orloff, Allison Page, Luke Phelan, Michael Polydoris, Corinna Press, Barb Rands, Frances Richard, Blake Riley, Nicolas Sansone, Deb Schwartz, Mark Shea, Aretha Sills, Gina Siepel, Kate Singer, Sara Smith, Dean Spade, Eirik Steinhoff, Elliott Vanskike, Heather Varnadore, Shawna Virago, David Watkins, Betsy Wheeler, Jonathan Wilber, Rebecca Yaffe, Dov Zeller, and Eileen Zyko.

  Thank you to my BFF Jordy Rosenberg: good buddy, kindly uncle, stellar introducer, true reader and advisor and talker-down-from-ledges. Dude.

  And thanks to my parents, Bridget and Donald Mariano, who surrounded me with books.

  My deepest appreciation, beyond measure, to Bernadine, Shugie, Sleeve, and T’Other—my loves, my home.

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