A Different Me -1- Union Station

I sat at the counter of the bar I’d never been in before and sipped whisky I didn’t like, listening to people I didn’t want to know talk about what was wrong with the world.

One man was certain that something he called “wokeness” would destroy everything that was worthwhile, though he couldn’t or wouldn’t say what being woke meant. “They talk about it all the time,” he insisted, “and they don’t explain what it is either.” But when asked who they were he growled and re-iterated his point with added profanities.

Another man complained that though he was a good-looking guy with a good job and no bad habits, he couldn’t find a woman who wanted to share a bed with him, much less a life. “They must all be lesbians,” he moaned.

“Maybe he should be looking for a guy to share a life with,” I thought but didn’t say. It amused me to imagine what a storm that would cause in the room. I toasted the idea with a movement of my shot glass, then downed the rest of my drink and set the glass down with tunk.

The barman noticed and inquired with a tilt of his head if another shot was desired, but I shook my head. I left some money on the counter and headed for the door.

The conversation in the room had turned to the Second Amendment and various recent mass shootings, and I didn’t have the stomach to listen.

Besides, I had a date with a shotgun to keep and had just been putting it off.

Six months ago, at a week short of my 65th birthday, in accordance with company policy, I’d been let go from my job as whatever it was I’d been doing for the last forty years. I’d had enough to drink that I didn’t need to put in any effort to remember—or forget—such trivia. I had a nice pension, and the Social Security checks would be coming as soon as he applied for them.

If I could be bothered.

“Alan,” the lady in HR had said, “you’re retired now with a nice amount of money. Go out and enjoy yourself. Travel, maybe. Or buy a home someplace nice.”

But there was nowhere I wanted to be. No where on this earth.

I wasn’t drunk but had achieved a pleasant numbness. Numbness, I decided, was good. If I were numb, I wouldn’t feel anything when I solved all of my problems. The world discussed in the bar would have to take care of itself without me.

Outside, late afternoon had turned into a tardy evening. The sun had set behind the Rockies, and long shadows stretched across the plains toward Kansas. I stopped at a corner and peered around. I hadn’t been stupid enough to drive to the bar; I’d walked. It was only five or six blocks. But which way?

Being lost five minutes from my apartment struck me as funny, and I turned to share the joke with a homeless man sitting with his back to the building, a bundle of his belongings serving as a pillow for his tired and filthy ass.

Recognizing that thought as unkind, I said only, “Hey, buddy,” and nodded at the unfortunate and got a nod in return. He probably wouldn’t see how funny the meager joke was, anyway, since he was home and lost at the same time.

I turned away to hide a meaningless smirk, but now the homeless man spoke. “Hey buddy,” he said, repeating my words. “Have you got the time?”

Time, I reflected, was all I had left. Why should I give any of it to someone else? I shook my head without turning back.

It turned out that I was not quite numb enough not to feel the blow. I toppled off the curb and into the street, where the homeless man began going through my pockets. “If you wanted money, you should have asked,” I remembered thinking before everything went dark.

# # #

I woke up sitting on a hard wooden bench. My head hurt, and wonder of wonders, I felt hungry. I hadn’t felt real hunger in years and certainly had not had an appetite since I got laid off. My stomach growled with a small cramp that moved from side to side. Wow, I thought, I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.

I opened and closed my mouth, feeling stickiness on my lips, tongue and teeth. Had I been sleeping sitting up with my mouth open? I felt myself begin to fall sideways and clenched several muscles at once to prevent what seemed like an imminent topple.

My eyes popped open as I spasmed without actually moving much. What I saw confused me. It wasn’t a scene I expected to see, though I’m not sure what that would have been.

People bustled past, carrying or towing bits of antique luggage in a huge room with a ceiling that must be thirty feet or higher. Widely-spaced gigantic windows let in the blue light of an open sky. The whole scene seemed a bit blurry, causing me to squint to try for a clearer focus. Where were my glasses? I didn’t feel them on my face.

But I did smell sweat, diesel fuel, boiled hot dogs, dirty baby diapers, popcorn, and cheap perfume, all at once. Involuntarily, I kicked my leg, and my foot collided with what looked like an antique cardboard suitcase, one that had suffered a lot in its travels.

I stared at it. Then at the foot and the leg. I seemed to be wearing a pair of black maryjanes, the soft leather kind with the big buckle like girls had worn to school when my mother had been a child. I had on white socks, too, with a tiny lace pattern sewn into the upper edge. Moving up the bare leg above the sock was an even greater shock.

Was I wearing a dress? A skirt, at least! Yellow background with green and red tulips? The dress continued to my lap, my waist and even my chest. I really was wearing a dress.

Why would I be wearing a dress? The twin mounds swelling out the bust of the flower print fabric defined a gender not my own, going some way to explaining the dress. I felt a stiff constrictive fabric next to my skin, under the dress. What the hell else was I wearing?

I resisted the urge to grope myself, clenching clenched my thighs together instead. I couldn’t be sure, but it felt as if nothing in my crotch was in the way.

Am I dreaming I wondered, but the scene around me felt so real. I even recognized the place now that I thought about it, though it looked different than I remembered from a school trip out west. Union Station in Los Angeles had just that sort of windows, with just that kind of tiles and a long bank of ticket counters dividing the room.

Had I died, and this was how the afterlife presented itself to me? That didn’t seem likely either. I had been planning on ending my own existence, and had no expectation of it somehow continuing. I’d been a pragmatic sort, sure of what I could see with my eyes, feel with my hands, and know with my mind.

Had been?

I hadn’t believed in unseen realms or imaginary beings since a cousin had convinced me of the non-existence of a certain jolly old elf. But maybe I should reconsider my convictions.

Looking around, I didn’t see anyone who seemed to be paying any attention to me. It was a bus and train terminal, everyone had somewhere they needed to be, and they went about their own business. They had no time for a young woman, or girl, in maryjanes and a flower print dress.

The situation began to assume a sort of hyperacuity. I was definitely here, in Los Angeles Union Station or some similar place that was very like the one I remembered, and it seemed that I was now the girl in the print dress. But I needed to know for sure.

I stood up, intending to find a restroom, but I almost tripped over the suitcase. No wonder I’d kicked it earlier; it had been practically sitting on my feet. I stared at the thing; it was tan with three black stripes. Other than the clothes I was wearing, the suitcase and its contents might be all I had in the world. I’d better not let it out of my sight, and that’s probably why it was sitting on my feet.

I tried to pick the bag up by the leatherette handle, noting that it was bigger and heavier than I had supposed, almost unreasonably heavy. What have I got in this thing, I wondered. Clothes? Shoes? Books? What would a young woman have in her suitcase?

I looked around for a sign for the bathrooms and spotted them at the far end of the room. I supposed I’d have to wag the suitcase all the way there, but I didn’t see an alternative.

I maneuvered a little clumsily to my feet. I wasn’t used to moving in a dress and felt unconvincing as a woman and feared that in my awkwardness, I would show too much thigh, or even fall flat on my butt.

I tried again to pick the bag up and barely moved it, but caused a cardboard sign propped against it to topple forward, landing face down. What had fallen over turned out to be a notebook-size piece of white cardboard with a name written in spidery block capitals.

I picked it up to look it over, but there was nothing else to identify it as anything but a random piece of cardboard. The name seemed to be Charmayne Hunt. Pronounced shar-main, I supposed. Unless it was char-mane? Charm-ayn?

I blinked enough to create a small breeze when I realized that must be my name now. Was the sign supposed to identify me to someone looking for me? For Charmayne? That name would take some getting used to.

I straightened back up and realized that people were looking at me now. Men were smiling, and women were frowning. Had my bending over to pick up the sign attracted such attention? I felt my face turn red and resisted the urge to laugh for fear it would come out as an embarrassed giggle.

Now I really needed a restroom for more than personal exploration, but I had a problem. More than one, really. First was the weight of the suitcase. I couldn’t leave it behind, but I didn’t think I could carry it either. Drag it, maybe.

The other problem being that if someone was looking for me, for Charmayne, I didn’t want to not be where they expected to find me when they showed up. Find Charmayne, that is. If they were looking for me, for Charmayne, they’d likely know something about the situation I found myself in. Wouldn’t they?

The fourth problem, if I haven’t lost count, is really the first problem. I’m apparently a woman now, perhaps a girl, and I don’t know the first thing about being female, witness my bending over with my derriere in the air while wearing a skirt.

If I started laughing, I might get hysterical, but something made me feel almost giddy with optimism. Whatever happened next would likely be better than my original plan to go home and try to eat my shotgun.

So it was that when a young man walked up to me and asked, “Are you Charmayne Hunt?” that I smiled and nodded. Because if I wasn’t Charmayne I would probably be no one at all.