A Kind of Justice (2 page)

The madman drops like he was shot and writhes on the floor gasping for air with lungs that are frozen shut, both hands held to his eye socket. For a moment I worry that he'll die, then he takes a short breath. A new problem. He'll recover in a moment, and we'll start all over again.

I kick his pistol in the general direction of the receptionist and bind his hands behind his back with the cord of the curling iron, then tie a salon cape over his face. The cape thing is bizarre, but it works with some wild animals, maybe with him.

We don't find out. The police arrive before he recovers enough to resist. Two uniforms tend to the maniac, another asks me what happened. As I answer, I see the mystery man just over the shoulder of the cop. A thick, powerful black man who is staring at me with palpable malice. He looks vaguely familiar.

I give my statement and the cop moves to Trudy, then other witnesses. Other cops take the maniac away. Trudy is in shock, gray-faced, blank-eyed. She moved out on him a week ago, sick of the drugs, the beatings, the low-life friends. Stayed with one of the other stylists and
kept a low profile. Joey is dangerous. Slugs, slaps, punches. Scorns. Mr. Wonderful. His brutish personality is blended with the intellect of a carrot. It took him a week to figure out he could find her at her place of work.

It amazes me how often a beautiful girl like Trudy gets involved with a doper or pusher or gangster or one of the other breeds of low-life men. My friend Cecelia says it's a low-self-esteem thing. They only respect men who don't respect them. A lot of them get into drugs themselves, or booze, or dehumanizing sex. It kills me. I'd give anything to have been put in Trudy's body. I'd pay any price and I'd do anything to keep body and mind whole. And here she has it all and pisses it away on a scumbag like Joey.

Slowly the salon evolves back to doing hair. I instruct the staff to comp all the clients in the salon during the scene and I personally apologize to each of them. Some of them look at me like I'm some kind of hero. John Wayne in a miniskirt. It's kind of funny, but the humor hides a more somber truth: I'm one transwoman who doesn't play the victim anymore.

The police finish their interviews. The last one to leave pauses to talk to the mysterious black man who is still in the reception area, sitting now, still staring at me. Even from a distance I can see the anger on his face. Not quite the mask of hatred Joey brought in, but the same genre.

He looks familiar, but I can't place him. He can't be a customer. What little hair he has is cut almost flush with his scalp. Whoever he is, whatever his issues, I decide to confront them head-on. I approach him and ask, “Can I help you, sir?”

He stares at me as though I have insulted his wife. He stands, his face inches in front of my face, scowling, breathing through his mouth. His breath reeks. He holds a badge in one hand, beside his face. That and his hate-filled eyes, his wide nose, his powerful shoulders bring
back the memory. The badge reads “Detective Allan Wilkins.” I remember him as Detective Hard Case. He wanted to implicate me in two violent crimes in the transgender community when I was transitioning. He hated me because I was a man with tits, a freak, a simpering queer who wouldn't acquiesce to his bullying tactics.

“Great work.”

He's talking about my takedown of the crazy man. But he's not really admiring it. He speaks in a voice only I can hear, but he manages to convey hatred and anger with great efficiency.

“You know how to handle yourself,” he says. “You act like a big fairy who wouldn't hurt a fly. But you showed who you are just now. You're a violent pervert and you get off on hurting men. You did that poor sap in the alley and you did John Strand, too. You thumbed him in the eye, just like you did this asshole, and then you slit his throat. I'm on your trail, Cinderella, and I will get you this time.”

The poor sap in the alley had raped me. He and a buddy. A bloody beating followed by a first-class rape. Wilkins was one of the cops who figured I had it coming. Fingering me for the mugging the rapist got months later speaks eloquently about where transgender women sit in his legal priorities.

“Get out of this salon right now. Don't ever come back, or I'll report you to the DA's office again.” I say it in a furious whisper, my eyes boring right back into his. Getting lip from a transsexual drives him stark raving mad, but I couldn't care less. He's not fazed by my little reminder that the last time he tried bullying me, he got censured by the LGBT advocate in the DA's office. No matter, that was my promise to him, not a defense mechanism. I'm not on this earth to take crap from bigots.

“I just responded to a call with my brothers in blue,” he says, flashing a mirthless grin. “That's my job.”

“I insist you leave immediately.” I say it loud enough for the
receptionist to hear me. She has been watching since I approached him.

Wilkins' lips widen into a menacing leer. He nods. Leaves. I'm supposed to be scared and intimidated. I am, but I have news for Wilkins. I've gotten rid of him before and I can do it again.

The first morning of the rest of my life. An omen.

T
HURSDAY
, J
UNE
12

T
HIS WORKDAY ENDS
in a unique way. A cluster of hairdressers linger to talk after we close, not like us at all. In our shop, when your last customer leaves, you do a station cleanup and get out the door. Tonight, everyone wants to talk about the wild event of the morning. And the aftermath. They vent their emotions, recall where they were when it happened, what clients or other stylists said or did. They replay my heroism, especially Samantha, our receptionist. “You may not be a man anymore, but you sure know where to hit one, Bobbi,” she says.

I'm transsexual and my friends' lighthearted repartee and joking about it in the shop keeps the edge off. Many of these people went through my transition with me. It was a difficult time for all of us. They had to get used to me in a dress and makeup, and not looking quite right, a woman in male proportions. I had to get used to me, too. It was hard. I'd like to think we're all better people for having gone through it. I know for sure we're closer.

Sam's remark brings murmured assent. The girls may be taking some comfort from having an oversized transwoman in the place. I'd rather be five-five and 120 pounds, but this morning, it was nice to be six feet tall, 160 pounds, with enough leverage and heft to drop a piece of bad news in his tracks.

My mind notes the fact that Sugar Ray Robinson was six feet tall and 160. Dad's favorite fighter. But Dad wouldn't see much similarity between his son-turned-daughter and the great Sugar Ray. Even before he got to my white skin, he'd blanch at my plump breasts and my almost-feminine butt. And Dad would puke.

My father was homophobic when I thought I was gay. He would have been transphobic, too, but he died before I got to this part of my life. Whatever. I've come to realize that, with or without a dick, I'm a better person than he ever was.

As I modestly proclaim mine a lucky punch, Roger unlocks the front door and enters. He is the owner of the shop and one of the finest human beings I've ever known. He stuck by me in my transition, even when customers and stylists alike were making his life miserable. And he wants me to own this shop with the kind of passion a patriarch might have for keeping the business in the family.

Roger walks directly to me. He is a smallish, slim man whose walk and mannerisms are more effeminate than mine, even though I work at it and he doesn't. His movements are fast, like there is a fire burning behind him. His face is stressed. He stands on his tiptoes and throws his arms around me and we hug like siblings who haven't seen each other for years.

“Are you okay now?” he asks as we break the clinch. He is almost shaking with pent-up anxiety. He doesn't wait for an answer but moves among the others, asking the same question, hugging each one, apologizing that his salon was the scene of such a violent event. He can be a very tough boss and a hard-nosed businessman, but deep down inside he's as mushy and sentimental as any of us.

As the staff starts trickling out into the night, Roger and I retreat to his tiny office. When I'm in here with him, the ghosts of my transition always lurk on the edges of my consciousness. This is where Roger didn't fire me for coming in as a woman, out of the blue—yesterday
a man, today the worst sort of queer—a transsexual woman. This is where he told me to quit apologizing for who I was and just get to making women beautiful. And this is where he introduced me to the SuperGlam people and recommended me for their hair show staff, the start of my platform career, which led to me becoming what Roger calls a rock-star hairdresser.

Even though there is no one left in the shop, Roger closes the office door before sitting at his desk. I'm in a hard plastic chair facing him, with just enough room to cross my legs.

Roger clears his throat, looks at me, drops his gaze, clears his throat, looks at me. On the third cycle he bursts into tears like a broken-hearted child. This is not hair salon histrionics. This is pure grief. I rise and come around the desk and throw my arms around him. He stands and we hug, me stooping so our bodies match up.

He sobs for a long time, until his torrential grief subsides to a throbbing ache. I know what that's like and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

“He's not going to make it, Bobbi,” Roger says as I sit down again. He's referring to his cancer-stricken partner, Robert. They have been a dedicated, loving couple for decades. They had dreamed of someday getting legally married, but Illinois is still wrestling with the twin bigotries of homophobia and religious hatred. How they manage to face each day upbeat and cheerful in the face of such injustice is beyond me, but they do. At least, until now.

“They're saying three months, maybe less. I asked him what he wanted to do with the rest of his life . . .” Roger tries to smile but sobs. He is in such pain I want to give him my tears to cry.

“He wants to finish his days watching the sun rise and set in Florida.”

Roger and Robert have both done very well in business and bought a beautiful home in Key West. I haven't been there, but several of the hairdressers have and they rave about it.

“I need you to buy the business right now, Bobbi. No more dawdling.
I need to get Robert to Florida, and you need to own this salon. Believe me, Bobbi, you will make it even better and owning this place will help fulfill you. You're made for it. These people look up to you . . .” Roger pauses a beat as I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I'm an unlikely icon for leadership in the beauty business. “No, they do. They admire you, Bobbi. You're smart and fair and you are one of the greatest hairdressers in the city. They'll stay if you take over. You'll all do well.”

“I'm worried about the economy, Roger.” I am. The financial crash ushered in a recession. We've always been able to handle them, but this one is ominous. Economists keep forecasting a recovery, but it keeps getting worse, like a wound you can't stop from bleeding.

“You're getting a fabulous price on this business,” says Roger. “Believe me, I could get more from other sources. I want you to have it. If things get really bad, we can redo my part of the deal.” Roger owns a high percentage of the business. The bank's share isn't much more than a line of credit, which is why I can make this purchase without putting up much in the way of cash or assets.

I nod but don't say anything. He's not done yet.

“I need you to do this fast, Bobbi. I have another offer, and I'll have to take it if you aren't ready to move.”

I shouldn't be so intimidated about taking on hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. I worked in the corporate world as a marketing type, so I've been involved in mergers and acquisitions, some on a grand scale, but none involving my money.

Words don't come to me. I want to tell Roger that I'm thinking about it, but it scares me. He's heard it before.

“Bobbi, I've wanted you to have this salon ever since I saw you standing out in front of buildings freezing your ass off in the dead of winter handing out leaflets for your services. I've never ever met anyone who wanted to be a hairdresser so much and who was such a good person. I love you. Robert loves you. Do this!”

Roger's timing is impeccable. The adrenaline rush from taking down that junkie has wakened my inner warrior, and Roger's words have caressed my heart.

“I love you both, too, Roger.” I want to say how heartbroken I am. For both of them. But the words seem too trite to say out loud and so I stare at him and let my tears come. Roger regards me with the greatest sadness, powered by his loss and also by my grief.

“Okay, Roger,” I say finally. “I'll have my attorney contact yours.”

So ends months of procrastination, me trying to reason the whole thing out, not able to rationalize making the move, plunging ahead now on an emotional whim. I'm not going to think about it anymore. No second-guessing, no buyer's remorse. I said yes and now I'll see it through. I'm scared, but the truth is, Roger is right. I can make this work, maybe better than anyone else. And if I fail, I'll be brave and I'll start over.

Roger and I hug again, a long embrace baptized with tears. When we finally leave the shop, we blow kisses to each other on the sidewalk and go into the night in different directions.

*    *    *

W
EDNESDAY
, J
UNE
18

“Of course I will,” says Cecelia. She glances at me, a wry smile playing at her lips, as if my question was silly. She has just agreed to come to the closing on the salon with me.

We are puffing and sweating along the Chicago lakefront, engaged in our weekly Wednesday power walk together. Cecelia is a retired investment banker. She was at the top of that pyramid back in the day, back when she was an alpha male. Now she's a leader in the Chicago transgender community and my best friend. She's big and loud and defiantly transsexual, unwilling to countenance bullshit from anyone
about it. We met when I was first beginning to explore my hidden transgender reality. My first impression of her was unkind. I thought she was a loudmouthed jerk.