“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” ~George Santanya   A Blast From The Past Part 3 By Ginger Collins

With considerable hesitation ameliorated somewhat by a hefty belt of scotch, I dialed my ex-wife’s number. Although it was nearly 11:30 at night, she answered on the first ring. Her “hello” was neutral, but alert. She obviously had not been sleeping. My tone was equally non-committal as I opened communication with her for the first time in 15 years following our accidental morning encounter today at Lana’s salon.

“Sara, this is Michelle. I’m returning your call.”

“Thank you. I called much earlier, about three this afternoon. It’s almost midnight, now.”

“Yes, I know. I just got home. Would tomorrow be a better time to talk?”

“Yes, can you do lunch? I’d like to talk to you in person.”

“Okay. How about Scala’s Bistro at the Drake, say 12 or so? I’ll make the reservations.”

“”12 o’clock at Scala’s will be fine.”

“Very well. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Sara.”

“Goodnight.” Click. End of conversation. During it, not once did she address me as either Michael or Michelle. Apparently to her, I was neither a he nor a she, but then, what did I expect? After all, she had married a Michael, not a Michelle!

To avoid reading too much into this brief exchange, I turned on the Turner Classic Movie channel for diversion. Nothing caught my interest, however. At this point, I realized what a long, action-filled day I had undergone and fatigue hit me like a falling brick. For respite, I sought sanctuary in my bed. Almost instantly, I fell into a fitful sleep where dreams with the unstructured and ever changing pattern of a kaleidoscope visually played on my unconscious. Although the images were surreal, they were vividly recognizable and sounded silent alarms. They included carrier operations at sea, F/A-18’s over Iraq, a younger and nicer Sara, and lastly, me in various stages of transition from Michael to Michelle. In the Michael/Michelle sequences, I looked awkward and unconvincing as a woman, “a man in a dress.” During one vignette, I was wigless with smeared lipstick, running mascara, and torn hose while being chased through a crowded shopping mall by a pack of vicious teenage girls. They were enjoying my discomfort and were closing in for the kill.

Naturally, being “clocked” or “read” is my worst and recurrent fear. Even in my sleep, it pursues me. Suffice it to say, I am always relieved when I wake up to find out it was only a bad dream. I constantly reassure myself that I really am convincing as Michelle and that I am not challenged in this persona. Besides, today is not a day to exhibit a lack of confidence because in about six hours I will be lunching with Sara. I shed my sweat-soaked negligee and head for the shower.

After the morning paper, some stretching exercises, yoga, and several cups of caffeine-free coffee, I start to get organized. “High Noon” at Scala’s will be an epiphany for me, where my past hits the present head on. Promptly at nine, I make lunch reservations for two in my name at Scala’s in the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, downtown near Union Square. Then I begin to glam up. I fret for the longest time over what to wear. Soon my bedroom looks like a department store’s changing rooms in the wake of a hurricane’s path. Silk, nylon, cashmere, and other synthetic fabrics are strewn everywhere. They include suit skirts, one-and-two-piece dresses, sheaths, and all sorts of delicate under things. Men, of course, never face these “monumental” decisions, I muse. The poor bastards are stuck in boxer shorts, one-kind-fits-all suits, and stiff, white-cotton shirts. Their only fashion statement is a red or a blue tie. On top of that, they are forced to sit on their wallets!

Ultimately, I settled on a berry colored one-piece dress topped with an attached sheer-sleeved mock duster. Classic black pumps, a simple, gold baht necklace, with matching tiny, gold-stud earrings, and a knockoff Armani handbag completed my ensemble. As I finished putting on my face, primping my hair for the countless time, and smacking my lips, I was ready to launch. Thirty minutes later I waltzed into Scala’s and was shown to our table. I was early and had wanted to be there first. I imagined that I could hear my wristwatch ticking as well as my heart beating.

Sara arrived promptly at noon and made her grand entrance. She might be a bitch, but I had to give her credit, she was an elegant one. Everything about her screamed money, style, and class. The world was her runway and she was its top model. Although I kept a poker face, I was a little more than envious. It was hard not to be intimidated by her.

Before she was seated, we greeted each other with polite nods and identical salutations, “good afternoon.” A long, uncomfortable silence ensued that was broken only by our drink orders. It continued as we each stared at our lacquered nails until the waiter brought us our cocktails, “Stoli” vodka martinis, straight up. The choice was not mine. I merely matched her selection. She raised her glass in a mock toast without a smile and said, “Cheers.” I returned the toast verbatim along with a blank facial expression. We did not clink glasses.

Her eyes had not been idle, however. They had scrutinized every square centimeter of my upper body as she sat across from me. It reminded me of a Captain’s inspection aboard ship. No doubt she had assigned grades to my attire, makeup, posture, and overall deportment. Finally, she spoke, “Well, you’ve come a long way from the first time I saw you in drag, Michael.”

“Is that a compliment?” I cautiously asked while not letting the “Michael” dig upset my balance.

“As a matter of fact, it is. You look quite nice. Lana’s hairstyling is most becoming on you. How long have you been going there?”

“Yesterday was my first time. It may be my last. I don’t appreciate her giving out my phone number.”

To my surprise, Sara laughed as she said, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, dear. Lana’s connected.”

“Connected?” I arched my carefully sculptured eyebrows.

“Yes, and to the Russian mafia, which operates here in the United States. Unless you want your car torched or your apartment trashed or acid thrown in your face, I’d leave things alone. Besides, I wanted to talk to you, and I’m one of Lana’s best customers. I’ve been going there since she opened.” She sat her nearly empty glass down.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure to stay on Lana’s good side. I managed a small, tight smile. The “Stoli” was starting to have an effect on me. Never gulp martinis!

It was beginning to have an effect on Sara too because the next words out of her mouth were, “Michelle, that’s a pretty name, but do you think the privilege of being called it was worth the price you paid, namely, the termination of your Naval career and the dissolution of our marriage?”

I glanced long and hard at my lipstick-stained glass before answering, “Yes, the price was worth it with regard to my Naval Career. I have regrets, however, with regard to our divorce.”

With a wistful look, Sara said, “I notice that you didn’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the price of our marriage, but only that you had regrets. Am I supposed to take solace in that?”

“That’s all I can give you. I didn’t ask to be transgendered. It’s a mental thirst that can’t be slaked. After a while it can take complete possession of you. That’s what happened to me.” I paused to drain my glass before I continued, “I know this sounds trite, but it was probably for the best that you discovered my secret so early in our marriage and threw me out before we developed deeper emotional ties or had kids.”

Sara released a small sigh before she said, “That’s the whole point of this meeting, Michael,” She paused momentarily. “Excuse me, I mean Michelle. We do have a child. He’s 14-years old now and he has two mommies! How about that? Is he lucky or what?”

By now, my “Stoli” was drained and despite ample applications of blush, so was my face color as I exclaimed, “How can that be, Sara? You were on the pill and you were always so careful.”

“I was careful up until the time I let my prescription lapse for a week or so. Then you got me hot, horny, and drunk one night and slipped it to me. Bingo! Three months later after you were long gone following your impromptu diva act, I got a baby bump and a divorce. Nice, huh?”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael, of course, but maybe I’ll change it to Michelle.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Because he’s a cross-dresser, just like his old man! It must be in his genes. What is it with the men in my life? Why do all of them want to wear my panties? She started to cry softly.

Two more “Stoli’s” were definitely in order and I signaled the waiter. Then I asked with slight trepidation, “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes, he says he thinks he’s gay! If you’re not busy next week, maybe we can go on Oprah or Doctor Phil and sort this mess out.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm and pain.

TO BE CONTINUED