Peter’s denial is a common story.

The Cock Crowed
by Angela Rasch

The clock on my laptop hadn’t changed in hours. Sometimes that happens on the graveyard shift. The time between 1:20 and 1:21 AM can last forever. There are those who say a simple change in attitude will fix that.

Peter Schiltz, the nameplate stated that hung from the wall of my cubicle.

I’d thought about using ”Petra” for my fem name, but that’s so obvious. When I’m dressed I love the name Crystal. I know it’s a name that strippers are fond of using. But I still think it’s delightful.

At 1:45 Wally, from accounting, poked his head over the divider. “Pete, did you happen to watch HBO last night?”

Wally’s a guy I love to fantasize about. I’ve given him at least a hundred mental blowjobs. “I was watching ultimate fighting. What were you and every other faggot in the world watching on HBO -- while real men were glued to UFC?”

Wally blushed.

If I don’t make him blush once a week, life isn’t worth living. As far as I know, he’s as hetero as they make’em, but he’s cute as all hell when he blushes.

“It’s a. . .,” he stammered. “They had a comedy special with Eddie Izzard. I about died laughing."

“Eddie Izzard!” I roared. “Isn’t he that fudge-packer who wears dresses?”

“He doesn’t wear dresses all that often . . . anymore.” Wally said almost apologetically.

“All that often? Isn’t once ‘often’ enough? Wearing a dress is like being pregnant. If you wear a dress, even just once, you’re either a woman or you’re horrifically fucked-up.”

“He’s really funny,” Wally said quietly, but pulled his head back, out of my sight. “As Eddie would say,” Wally’s voice floated to me, “As Eddie would say, ‘Armageddon . . . out of here.’”

***

At 3:10 AM I sat in the lunchroom eating a chicken and cucumber wrap I’d brought from home.

Marcy’s dress is soooo cute. How do they think of making a sleeveless dress out of red and white fabric that looks like a cowboy’s bandana.? I wonder if I can find something like it online in a size 18? It’s so frustrating to order an XL, only to have it be so small I’d need two of them. But . . . with a Really Red lipstick, I’d look good in that dress!

Sean sat down and pulled out a PB and J sandwich. He ate a few bites before waving it at me. “Racist . . . that’s what some jackass in Portland said. Cuz not everyone eats PB and J -- teachers ain’t supposed to mention it less-en they balances what they say by talkin’ about food ate by Somalis and Hispanics.”

“You don’t say. What’s next?”

“I’ll tell you ‘what’s next.’ To be politically correct, we’re all going to have to starts wearing uniforms. Unisex uniforms.”

“What would be wrong with that?” I asked. “If the big boys up in the ivory tower want to pay for my clothes, I’m not going to fight that.”

“What if they decide we’s all gots to wear ladies’ clothes.” He went on to warn me about how women have to wear dresses sometimes, for hygienic reasons. So, there would be days when we would all have to wear dresses.

“Fuck’em!” I declared. “They would have one hell of a time getting me to do that. I’d like to see them try.”

We both laughed, in open rebellion, of the fictitious change, in dress code.

***

At 7:06 AM my shift ended. I left the building and started to cross the parking lot. I could smell the manure, from the farmer’s barn, across the road, from our call center.

“Hold up, Pete,” Gordon shouted. His face was red from the short sprint he’d taken across the lot, to talk with me. “I wanted your opinion on something,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

I nodded.

“Jenkins and I have to drive down to Atlanta for a seminar, next week.” His forehead wrinkled.

“So?”

“The company wants us to save some money, by bunking together.”

“One bed or two?” I asked mischievously.

“Two,” he quickly asserted. “but that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Un-huh.”

“Have you ever heard anything about Jenkins?”

“Like what?” I studied Gordon’s shoulders, memorizing the contour of his muscles. In about an hour, I’m going to be lying in bed in my negligee stroking myself -- while thinking about his build.

“Like. . .?” Gordon asked. “Which team does he bat for?”

I laughed. “Jenkins is married. He and his wife have four kids.”

“I know,” Gordon stated. “I went to a Christmas party at their house, last year. The thing is – I’ve been thinking about the shirts Jenkins wears. They’re usually some womanish color. . .like pink, or some other pastel.”

“I’ve never noticed,” I lied. I’ve often wished I had the guts to wear what Jenkins does . . . maybe even with the buttons on the other side.

“Pete, do you think I’m safe, in a motel room, with him?” Gordon’s face was dead serious.

“If I was you. . .." I stopped and lowered my voice. “. . . I’d pack a gun in my suitcase.”

“A gun?” Gordon’s face showed complete shock.

“That way when Gordon comes out of the bathroom in a nightgown you can shoot him, before he tricks you into thinking he’s a woman.”

A rooster on the neighboring farm crowed.

***

I wept bitterly, all the way home, frustrated by what I had to do and say to get through life.

Why do I have to live in a world of intolerance? Why can’t people just allow other people to be themselves?

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:

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Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Thing You Always Pined For
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Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
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Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
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