Chapter Three: Trouble at the Office

It was great that mom and I were the same size — a woman’s 6 for the most part — and that morning I could fit into a conservative navy blue pencil skirt that ended at the knees; it was a little tight at the belt line, and a bit loose in the hips, but other than that it looked fine. I wore one of the blouses I had purchased; it was a satiny light blue and I covered it was a colorful, embroidered vest. I put on sheer, coffee-colored pantyhose and two-inch heeled pumps. Mom insisted on light makeup, using mainly natural colors and few highlights.

“You have a naturally pretty face, Vicky, with such smooth skin,” mom said.

“Thanks,” I smiled.

“No sense in covering it up with a bunch of makeup, dear. You’ll have plenty of time to do that when you get as old as me.”

“Mom, you’re not old and you’re so pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you are, Vicky. You were such a pretty baby, too.”

“Aww, mom.”

Mother had a beige winter coat, with a fur lined hood, that she let me wear for the trip to work. It was apparent I had lots of shopping to do to become a fulltime woman. The sun was low on the horizon over Lake Michigan and it promised to be a sunny but cold day, with a brisk wind from the northwest. I was sorry I had agreed with mom to wear a skirt the moment I stepped outdoors and began my walk to the bus stop. I suddenly realized why so many Chicago women wore slacks during the colder months.

There were a few patches of ice on the sidewalks and I had to walk carefully in the heels to keep upright.

“Good morning, miss,” said the bus driver, as I deposited my $2 into the fare box.

I had been afraid he’d recognize me; his name was Sam, a cheerful African-American with a lined-face and close-cropped graying beard. I thought he looked like Morgan Freeman. Sam had been on the route most days since I began taking the bus on my daily ride to Women’s Place, and we had exchanged pleasantries. He did look at me strangely, but I didn’t feel there was any sense of recognition. As I walked back to my seat, I realized I’d soon have to introduce myself to him. Contrary to the habits of most bus drivers in the city, Sam relished getting to know his regular passengers; his route, particularly during the morning rush hours, was loaded with regulars, all headed to offices in the Chicago Loop. I knew many of them by sight, of course, and worried that some of them might recognize me.

Fortunately, a grandmotherly woman, whom Sam addressed as “Anna,” filled the empty seat next to me a few stops later. I recognized her, and wondered about her; she didn’t look like a professional woman, more like a cleaning lady on her way to the job. Yet, she carried what appeared to be a lawyer’s briefcase.

“It’s a cold one today, dear,” the woman said as she plopped down next to me.

“Yes it is,” I agreed, making my voice soft, and hopefully feminine.

“You young ladies, why must you wear skirts in this cold weather? Aren’t you freezing?” she said with exasperation.

“Yes, I should have. Just didn’t realize it was so cold.”

The bus lurched on, stopping at every corner and soon filling up so it was standing room only. I noticed one youngish, professional looking man glancing my way several times. Once I returned his look, and he quickly averted his glance, and I saw his face redden quickly. He was blushing, and that made him look so cute. It was obvious with his otherwise pale complexion and pug nose that he must be Irish, like me. I’d seen him on the bus before, although not on a regular basis, and I began fantasizing about him.

“That young man has his eye on you,” my seat mate pointed out.

I nodded, lost in my own thoughts. What was happening to me? Here I was on my first day as a woman, wondering about a young man on the bus. I decided I wasn’t ready for such a relationship, but for some reason the idea of being a girlfriend to a cute boy was tantalizing.

*****
As I exited the elevator on the 25th Floor, the ever-present Spencer McGurk was stationed at his desk in the hallway, carefully examining every employee’s credentials.

Sharp-eyed as he was, Spencer recognized me immediately; yet, he asked me to show my employee card. He smiled:

“Good morning, Miss Sullivan.”

I was flabbergasted. He addressed me courteously as a female. I felt like giving him either a kiss or a curtsey. My puzzlement must have shown, since he whispered to me: “Mrs. Winston informed me of the change, dear. I must say you look mighty pretty.”

“Thank you,” was all I could muster and I entered the office, my heart pounding with excitement. The previous night I had called Cecily Winston at her home to inform her of my plans to be dressed as a woman the following day; after some discussion, she had given her approval, but only for one day to see how I was received by the staff.

I walked deliberately, hoping to maintain a dignified, purposeful walk down the long aisle between the cubicles to my office at the back of the floor. I noticed most of the women looked closely at me as I walked by, but no one said anything. I heard someone murmur: “My God, she . . . ah . . . I mean . . . ah . . . he looks stunning.”

I entered my office, with brief “hi’s” to my direct staff, Maxine, Louisa and Paula. Naturally, Maxine and Louisa replied cheerfully, but Paula only scowled, creating a scowl that was even more severe than before. I closed the door, but realized I would have no privacy; since the inner office walls were of glass, I felt like I was to be stared at all day like a mannequin in a department store window.

I was hardly settled down at my desk when Cecily Winston entered the office. A knot formed in my stomach as the editor sat down in the chair opposite me. She forced a smile, and I realized that she was not feeling too happy this morning.

“We need to talk,” she said simply. “Let’s go to the diner at the corner for coffee.”

*****
“Good morning, Ms. Winston. I’ve shut down the back room so you and the young lady may be private for a while, just as you requested.”

“Thanks, Henry,” Cecily said, as she lead me into the back dining area, which normally would be empty at this time in the morning.

“He didn’t recognize me,” I said, as we sat down.“Why should he? You couldn’t be more convincingly a girl than if you were Scarlett Johansson,” Cecily said, a slight chuckle following the comment. Did I really look like the lovely Scarlett?

I had become a fairly regular customer of Henry’s diner, often grabbing a coffee or small Danish roll on my way to work, or a salad and soup for lunch. In spite of Henry’s great attention to cleanliness, there was still a mixed scent of fried food, onions and garlic permeating the place.

Henry had been in the location more than 20 years, I had learned, and had made it a practice to remember the names of every customer once they had been in more than two or three times. I thought he might notice that underneath my girlish garments lingered a young man named Jeremy.

“Now you better explain to me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours,” Cecily said, her tone bordering on sarcasm.

I blanched at the “pretty little head” reference, but felt it best that I not waver in expressing myself:

“Frankly, Ms. Winston . . .”

“Please, call me Cecily, dear. This is not a disciplinary discussion. I just want you to tell me honestly and frankly what’s with this sudden appearance of such a lovely girl.”

I blushed. Truth be told, I was tense and scared, even with the open invitation to be open with Cecily.

“Well,” I began. “I’m unhappy with the dishonest feeling I have had about this whole business. I should never have written that first letter to Edith, passing myself off as Gerianne. This whole thing just steamrolled over me. I didn’t see it coming, Cecily, but all of a sudden I was posing as this girl called Gerianne.

“And now everyone is speculating just who Gerianne is and who is actually writing this column that seems to understand female feelings so well.

“That female is me! Me! But I’m supposed to be a boy, a man. Yet, I feel I am a girl, a woman, Cecily. I don’t think I could ever live as a man, now. I never was much of a man, was I?”

Suddenly I burst into tears. I shook as I tried to keep my sobbing inaudible. Cecily reached over, handing me a tissue she quickly removed from a small pack in her purse. When I finally calmed down, Cecily looked at me closely. “Well, right now, Jeremy, I see only a very distressed young lady.”

“Jeremy, doesn’t sound right, does it, Cecily?” I said.

“Shall I call you Gerianne, then?”

“No, call me Victoria, or Vicky,” I said, smiling. How I liked the sound of the name.

“Victoria,” she said, running the name around in her mind. “Victoria. I like that.”

“Mom and I chose that name last night,” I said. “She helped fix me up and this outfit and coat are hers.”

Cecily smiled.

“Cecily, I’ve been looking into my future,” I started, “And believe that I should transition to be a female, and the sooner the better. It’s certainly possible these days, as thousands of girls have already done.

“Lot of it has to do with what’s in our mind, in our own being, and for as long as I can remember I seem to be more comfortable being with women or girls and doing what women or girls do. I’ve made an appointment with a gender specialist to begin considering whether I’m a good candidate.”

“Well, you certainly appear to be a good candidate, Vicky,” Cecily said. “You might already be the prettiest girl in our office.”

I giggled. “Oh, I doubt that, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“So what about your contract with us as Gerianne?”

“I think it’s best that I go public now, admit who Gerianne is, and tell the whole world that I’m transitioning.”

Cecily looked at me in horror. “You can’t do that. You’ll destroy the credibility of Gerianne and ruin the column, not to say what it might do with the credibility of Women’s Place. We have a reputation to preserve, Vicky.”

“But, Cecily, I can’t keep living a lie.”

*****
My morning coffee meeting with Cecily made me uneasy. She had always been more like a kindly auntie to me, easily understanding how a boy like me could come to be so intuitive of the feelings of women. She had spoken up for me in the past. Today, however, her attitude was chilly, and it became even fiercer as we returned to the office.

My co-workers all stood up as the two of us entered the office and watch as we walked back to our respective offices. The office was strangely silent; there was not even the sound of computer keyboard tappings, with the only sound being my heels on the tiled floor and the rustle of my nyloned thighs rubbing together as I walked. It sounded thunderous to my ears, and I couldn’t escape fast enough to my office.

“Enough of your gawking, ladies. Get back to work.” Cecily’s voice thundered through the office.

Almost in unison, I heard the plop of butts onto chairs, and slight squeak of chair wheels, as the women headed back to their seats. I entered my office, wishing for a place to hide, but with the glassed walls, I was fully visible to all, unless I hid under my desk. As ridiculous as it sounded, I felt like doing it. I sat down in my chair without taking off my coat and whirled my chair around to face the window which looked north on the magnificent view of Lakeshore Drive, the lake and the posh near North neighborhoods, its trees barren in the winter. Even in the grey of the morning, it was a breathtaking sight. The beauty of it, however, only seemed to intensify my pain: I cried and cried.

Slowly my tears subsided, and my mind began turning somersaults. Was I wrong to want to live as a woman? Was I wrong to want to tell the world my secret? Is it Ok to live a lie? Look at all the good I had done for other women even as I lived this lie. Not to think of how the magazine has flourished in the few months that Gerianne had been there.

“You’re going to do what!” The voice of Helena, my former business partner, thundered in my ear, interrupting my soul-searching.

I turned in my seat to confront the red-faced Helena, my onetime financial partner who had truly help to make me the popular columnist, plus making both of us lots of money.

“Oh Helena, please don’t be too harsh on me, but I just can’t go on deceiving everyone,” I said.

“But you have a contract, Jeremy, requiring you to be silent,” she said, her tone still hard and cold. “If you renege, you’ll lose everything and I will, too.”

“I’m aware of that, Helena,” I said. Fortunately, I was able to get myself in control.

“Look, Jeremy,” Helena said, also calming down in her voice. “We’ve been together on this for nearly five years now. We made a great team, I thought, and I admired your talents. You have to listen to reason.”

I smiled at Helena, realizing that I did have some power and that I didn’t have to be shy about using it. Had not Gerianne become the nation’s top lovelorn columnist?

“Look, Helena. I’m not about to do anything stupid. We’ll go to our attorney and discuss the ramifications fully.”

Helena looked at me carefully, as if considering her next words. “Look, Jeremy. I know Cecily is not going to take this laying down. She called me into her office immediately after you two returned and said they’d sue you for everything if you ever uttered a word outside of this office about who you are. I never saw her like that.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. “And it was funny, since when I called her last night to give her a heads-up that I’d be dressing as a woman today, she sounded totally understanding.”

“In the meantime, Jeremy, she talked with the publisher and the company’s attorneys,” Helena said. “I think she’s under extreme pressure not to let the truth come out.”

“Oh my God, no wonder she’s changed. I so hope I haven’t caused her lots of trouble.”

Helena smiled: “If you keep your mouth shut, she’ll be happy, I think. And you better keep your mouth shut, or else we’re both going to cook our golden goose.”

As you know, I didn’t like Helena, whose motivations were always too materialistic, too focused on money. I respected her, however, both for her financial judgment and her complete honesty. She was dependable and trustworthy, I knew. We discussed the situation for a few more minutes, and I finally agreed to see our attorney before doing anything further.

“Did you want to join me in the meeting with the attorney?” I asked.

“No, dear, this is your mess,” she said. “You keep me out of it.”

I looked at her, my dislike of her growing deeper.

“I must leave now, Jeremy,” she announced. “By the way, you’re a beautiful woman.”

She turned to leave, and I said, “I still hate to be a fraud, Helena, and you might like to know the woman before you has a name: Victoria Marie. Others may call me Vicky, but from now on you may refer to me as Miss Sullivan or Victoria. Good bye.”

She slammed the door so hard I was afraid the glass wall would shatter. I couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the difficult situation I was in.

*****
Later that morning, I wrote a memo and, sent it to Cecily, suggesting that I send it to the Women’s Place staff. I asked for her input before I sent it out, realizing she’d refer it to the company attorneys and top executives.

While awaiting a response from Cecily, I asked my direct staff, Maxine, Louisa and Paula, to come into the office. Maxine and Louisa took chairs opposite me, but Paula remained standing, her hands folded across her ample breasts, scowling. They were obviously eager to hear what I had to say, and Maxine, oh, how I loved her, was quick to put us all at ease before I explained my situation.

“You look very lovely this morning, ma’am,” she said, addressing me with a warm smile.

Louisa nodded, but as usual the look on Paula’s face was cold and distant.

“First, you may call me Vicky, since my full name from now in the office will be Victoria Marie Sullivan.”

Maxine nodded approvingly.

“I like that. It’s so feminine, Vicky,” Louisa said.

I took a few minutes to outline my decision to begin living as Victoria Marie. Maxine and Louisa nodded in agreement with the explanation, but Paula said nothing, a look of disapproval noticeable on her face.

“I think it’s disgusting,” Paula blurted as a completed my monologue.

“What?” Maxine said. “Don’t you understand? I think she’s sincere in this. Hasn’t been obvious to us all that she always seemed to have the instincts of a girl? My God, Paula, haven’t you noticed that.”

“No, I just saw an effeminate man, a disgusting bit of manhood,” she said. “I don’t how I tolerate working here when everything tells me Jeremy is violating the word of God, of the Bible. He’s a living blasphemy.”

I was taken aback; I had known Paula disliked me, but I thought it was professional jealousy. I had never known her to profess such a strong sense of religious rigidity. Her disgust with me, I could see, was sincere and honest. I violated all of her beliefs.

Both Maxine and Louisa said nothing, obviously shocked by Paula’s harsh words.

“I’m sorry, Paula,” I began, not sure how to respond. Her words hurt, they really did. She was accusing me of doing something unnatural and strange.

“I hope it won’t hurt our working relationship, Paula,” I continued. “I value your professionalism and you along with Maxine and Louisa have helped to make Gerianne and the magazine thrive. Please try to understand.”

Paula shook her head. “Whether I understand is not important, Jeremy,” she said, persisting on using my male name. “It’s whether God understands. And He will only understand if you live your life as a man, a real man instead of that girlish version we’ve seen in the office.”

“I’m sorry, Paula, but my mind has been made up,” I said, taking a firm, commanding tone. “I am planning to undergo treatment preparatory to transitioning to fulltime womanhood. And, I am to be addressed by my female name, Victoria.”

With that I dismissed the three of them, and the minute they left the office, I shivered, so frightened of the way I had to act.

*****
Surprisingly, Cecily came back within an hour, basically agreeing that I could send it out as a personal statement. The attorneys and top executives apparently suggested a few minor changes, which I incorporated into the message. I made them, and punched the “send” button. By noon, all of the staff received — and read, I’m certain — its contents. It read:

To my co-workers:

I feel I owe you an explanation. Today, I arrived dressed as a woman. I did this since I have long believed I have been a woman, even though my physical anatomy is that of a male. As most of you know, there are individuals like myself throughout all walks of life who were born of one gender, but for reasons largely not of their control, begin to feel that they are in their thinking and attitudes of the other gender. These people are called transgendered.

I am beginning treatment for gender dysphoria (or gender identity disorder). Part of that treatment suggests that I begin living fulltime as a female.

I hope you understand my personal situation. I believe this should not alter our working relationship in any way whatsoever. I have enjoyed working with all of the staff and have been grateful for the warm welcome you gave to me, even though I was different.

Feel free to call me or to stop by the office if you wish me to discuss that any further. In the meantime, I would appreciate being treated as just one of the women in the office. Please address me as Victoria, or Vicky, from now on. And, I’m “she” and “her,” but if you forget and call me by my old boy name, or say “he” or “him,” I’ll forgive you.

Thank you, Victoria Marie Sullivan.

A few minutes later, the staff received the following message from the Phyllis Frazier, Publisher:

To the staff:

This is to follow up on the email message all of you received recently from Victoria Marie Sullivan, formerly Jeremy Sullivan.

The executives and management of Women’s Place in no way endorse Ms. Sullivan’s decision to explore a gender change. We understand there may be a medical circumstance that forces such a decision.

It is her/his right to live as she/he desires. We expect all of the staff to respect that decision and continue to work as before to make Women’s Place the No. 1 media in the life of American women.

Meanwhile, you are ALL reminded that you have signed a nondisclosure statement not to reveal to ANYONE the identity of Gerianne.

If any of you have questions, please contact Sally Symkowski in the Human Relations Department. Thank you.

Phyllis Frazier, Publisher

*****
I tried mightily to get my mind focused on producing the next day’s online column, which was due by 3 p.m., our daily deadline, but I could not get my thoughts off of how delighted I felt wearing a skirt, blouse and other female clothing. I constantly brushed my hair, using a dainty brush of my hand. Yet, the dread of my altered looks — and their impact upon others — continued to haunt me.

Paula’s comments rang in my ears: “God will only understand if you live your life as a man, and not that girlish version I see in the office.” It was obvious she saw me as contemptible and a blasphemy.

From among the nearly 1,000 submissions we got each day from readers seeking advice, the staff typically chose ten for consideration to be put into the daily column. It was typical that all four of us would assemble at the small table in my office to discuss which three of the submissions would make the column for the day. I typically asked each of them to identify their personal top three; from them, we’d chose, usually by consensus, the ones for the column.

I encouraged the staff to openly defend their picks, along with the possible answers, including necessary research to back up our answers. It made for some spirited debates, but I felt the process created a diverse and appealing column.

Our daily conference would begin at 11:30 a.m., sharp, and continue until 12:15 p.m. If no consensus was reached by then, I would send them out of my office, and I would choose the three “winners.” That rarely happened, for which I was grateful, since I believed strongly in having all three staff members feel they had a real role in our success, which they did.

Paula did not show up for our 11:30 meeting; she had never before missed a meeting, nor had she ever been late.

“Where’s Paula?” I asked.

Louisa looked at me, her dark eyes showing intensity: “I don’t think she’s coming, Jeremy . . . ah . . . Vicky.”

I wanted to smile at her stumble over my name, but I was concerned about Paula’s absence. It wasn’t like her; she was always punctual and professional.

“She was fussing over things at her cubicle,” Maxine added. “I don’t think she had anything prepared for our meeting.”

I frowned, but realized the deadline had to be met.

“Well, let’s get started without her,” I said.

At 1 p.m., just after I had wolfed down a salad — delivered from the diner — I began to write the column, finding the need to produce the column making me able to focus and helping to erase the day’s unusual happenings from my thoughts. A few minutes later, there was a rap on my door, and I looked up to see Paula standing there, a piece of paper in her hand. I motioned her in.

“This is for you,” she announced, plopping the paper on my desk in front of me. I looked at her, but she averted my gaze. Through the glass wall I could see Louisa peering into my office, obviously interested in what was occurring here.

“Sit down,” I ordered.

She did, and I read the paper, which contained one paragraph, following by Paula’s signature and today’s date:

I hereby tender my resignation from Women’s Place, effective immediately. I feel I have no place in this Godless enterprise. I wish two of my co-workers, Maxine and Louisa, the best and express my appreciation for their support during my employment here.

I looked up at Paula, who continued to look down at the floor.

“This is it?” I asked. “You mean this.”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Is this because of me?”

“Yes,” she said, finally looking up at me, her round chubby face, gaining a fierceness I had never seen before. “You’re shameful, and any publication that would tolerate someone like you is further spitting in the face of God. And vengeance is the name of the Lord.”

I was shocked. I had never seen such emotion before from anyone, and it was an angry emotion.

“But Paula,” I said, recovering from her painful words. “You have been of great help here. Your research and your editing skills are tremendous. We’d hate to lose you.”

She stared at me, a meanness emanating from her wide green eyes.

“I’m gone, Jeremy,” she said, spitting out my male name.

With that she left my office. She said not a word to Louisa or Maxine, who looked at her closely, as she put on her coat, grabbed file box loaded with personal items and stalked out of the office.

Somehow, we met the 3 p.m. deadline that day for the column.