Lipstick Redemption

     When an unseasonably warm autumn comes to Natchez, the trees aren’t colorful down in this part of the south, but another splendor catches my eye. My friend from grade school sports a long ponytail with curls dangling from his bangs. So maybe he’s going for the Bohemian look. He has always been a non-conformist down to his shoulder-length hair.  
     He is a Libra, so is it any surprise that we celebrate the Harvest season by him giving me and my sister a drive down the Natchez Trace to a creek? He says, “Rosie and John, hope this doesn’t come as any shock to you but I think I was assigned the wrong gender.”  
     My sister says, “Don, nothing you could do or say would shock me. Your renegade spirit is an inspiration. If you are a woman then so be it.”  
     He says, “Furthermore, as a woman, I must open my sexuality to men.”  
    Rosie says, “As long as you don’t have my brother in mind go for it.”  
     I say, “Let me speak for myself.”  
     Rosie says, “Of course I would still love you just    
as much if you were bisexual or gay. It is just that I’ve never seen you take an interest in men.”  
     I say, “Well, sleeping with men isn’t attractive to me but I still reserve the right of self expression in these matters.”  
    Don says, “Sex is such a personal matter. But I must say that death is the last orgasm. Hence, it behooves us to do it with someone we love of whatever gender.”  
     We arrive at the forest and shed our shoes. We tramp through the grape vinery of live oaks which are bearded like mossy Spaniards and out onto the clay of the creek bank. The water swirls past the islands of sand in paisley patterns.  
     My sister, Rosie, grabs a clump of horsetails and swats Don on his bottom while giggling. She says, “How dare you abandon women for men.”  
     Don says, “Oh hey, I’m a lesbian. Of course, a fetching lass such as you is still my preference in all things amorous.”  
     Rosie pats Don on his derriere and says, “Hey, look at that blue jay perched next to the cardinal on the tree branch.”  
     I say, “There is room enough on the bough of life for all kinds of birds.”        
     Don and I lose contact for many moons until she calls me. Our rendezvous in New Orleans has me eager to see her makeover. When I lay eyes on my friend who has become transgendered into a female things get topsy-turvy but I quickly get my sea legs.    
     Sidewalk Jenny approaches like an angel born of light and love. Her chrysalis of softness has emerged like a butterfly from the cocoon to flutter into the endless blue sky. Her blonde hair outshines the sun on Decatur Street with her smile the key to Eden’s gate which she unlocks for me to enter. She looks every bit the woman she has become. Yet my memories of her manhood haunt the transgender nature of her flowering into maidenhood. She closes the gap of my bewilderment with her sure- footed entrance into my life.  
     My grin is nourished by her beauty which gives me the strength to open my introverted mind to the pleasures of her ladylike company. We run to the brewery building to find sustenance for the long night of our reunion. Yet the prices are higher than our hunger. She is in the mood for steak and leads me to a place which is both reasonably priced and    
has her desired meal.  
     We sit and her face glows as she applies her lipstick commenting, “These things are important to a girl and must be done right.” She is reborn as a woman in body and soul.  
     I tell her, “There is courage in your lipstick, which is a glossy reminder of the female nature which you have always had.”  
     She says, “Oh, you’ve got me blushing. But, I am tickled pink that you recognize the woman that I am. How do you like my look? I’d like to get prettied up in a French Maid’s outfit and have my stylist tie my hair in pink ribbon bows. Wouldn’t that be sexy? Am I making you uncomfortable?”  
     I nod yes and smile. After our repast, we wander the streets like orphans of the impending night. We dodge traffic on our route to find our lost friendship among the tourist and vagrants. With the sun nearly down we sit on a park bench by the river to reconnect with who we are and who we have become. A tenor saxophone wails from a woman who seems to know just the melody we need on this night on which she and I give a verbal toast to old friends with new personas.  
     “You know my father said he never saw me gentler than as a woman. We asked my ninety-year- old grandmother if she was comfortable with me    
bathing her. She said, ‘It’s just us girls.’”    
     She broaches a subject from long ago which I’d rather let go of. She recalls when she sent me to the hospital by stoning me with a railroad rock in a place which seems far away to both of us. I tell her, “I forgive you. That was so long ago that any residual feelings have been wiped away. Any injury has healed both emotionally and physically.”  
     She says, “Yes, but I feel remorse. John, I wish we were meeting with no history, a clean slate.”  
     I reply, “Let’s go to the Café Du Monde for beignets. That fried dough will take away your guilt. There is nothing like it to take away the bitter taste of events best forgotten.”  
     During our walk, I ask her, “Do people ever suspect that you were once a man?”  
    She turns around and says, “Just once that happened, but you asking me, that is illuminating.    
He was a client. My guise was that of a woman from birth but he suspected me so my cover was blown. You don’t have to ask me what I do for a    
living because it should be crystal clear.”  
     “The men are just as tarnished as the service providers.”  
     She says, “Those males are the only ones dirtied.    
You know it behooves me to pack some heat with them. A girl has to carry some protection. I may have them undress for me while I am fully clothed and handcuff them for my personal safety.”  
     We find refuge among the diners on the pastry in this place of chocolate milk and powdered sugar desserts. I confess to her. “My marriage is on the rocks. I expect we’ll divorce before the end of the year. We fight like cats and dogs.”  
     She says, “Oh John. Men come to me for relationship advice because they think a woman has insight into such things. But really I’m just as lost.”  
     I go to the pay phone to check my voicemail. There is a message from my sister. I tell Jenny, “My Mom is in the hospital for congestive heart failure.”  
     She says, “I understand if you have to go back to Baton Rouge to be with her.”  
     “Let’s walk back to my car together. We can have each other’s company for a little more time.”  
     She says, “I hope I’m not being impertinent. But    
have you ever been bicurious? I’ve always thought you had the potential to be a wise bisexual man.”  
     “Are bisexual guys necessarily wise? You know, once I was walking in San Francisco and a guy sitting on a stool asked me ‘Are you looking?’”  
     She says, “What if a gorgeous woman made a pass at you?”  
     I reply, “I just thought it was funny as in haha. I wasn’t offended by him.”  
     We stand in the alleyway and I try to find the words for a goodbye which may be forever. I tell her, “You have become a beautiful woman. But the intensity of your emotions overwhelms me.”  
     She says, “If your wife doesn’t like me then I understand. I’ve been abandoned before. I will immerse myself in the gay and lesbian community.”  
     We part in the French Quarter alley where I am scintillated by her exotica like she is a rare Amazonian butterfly whose androgyne beauty haunts my heart.