I tried to sleep in on Sunday morning but found myself looking out the window onto Perry Street and the city beyond, blanketed in at least half a foot of snow, at the ungodly weekend hour of 8 AM. The smell of El Pico Dark Roast wafted into my nostrils from the GlobalNet mug in my right hand. My phone rang. It was Rafe.

“Joey, it’s Rafe. Hope I didn’t wake you up. I took the chance since you’re such an early riser. Even on Sunday—”

“Right. Sunday in New York, Joey. Sunday in New York. I can’t believe it. See you in a bit.”

I decided to go back to bed and give myself another couple of hours of sleep. I drifted off with thoughts of Christmases past and visions of sugarplums danced in my dreams. Then there was the Christmas of my 15th year. The year my life changed forever. It might not have happened if not for the fact that Port Jefferson, my hometown, has a proud tradition of holding a Charles Dickens Festival every December, including semi-professional performances of a stage adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Other than being a busy shipyard in the last century and at one time being the residence of P.T. Barnum, the annual Dickens Festival was this quaint little seaport’s biggest claim to fame and putative tourism.

On the first weekend of December, the entire town turns out in Victorian Era garb to parade down East Main Street (renamed for the occasion Dickens Alley). And everyone in the community auditions for roles in the annual production of the Dickens classic. Up until the age of 10, every boy in the village wanted to be cast as Tiny Tim. Rafe was Tiny Tim when he was nine. He practiced limping for weeks in anticipation of the auditions. The biggest part I’d ever gotten was as one of the “other” children in the Cratchit family.

The exhaustive rounds of auditions always began in mid-October. Since the pool of stage hopefuls was pretty limited (the same people tended to audition every year), the play’s director and leader of the theater troupe, Barney Randolph, undoubtedly had already cast each part in his mind before even hearing the first horribly wrong-sounding London accent attempted. The small band of professional actors led by Randolph, of course, took on the main roles. The rest of us competed for the secondary parts. If you ended up with more than two lines, you’d get a mention in the local paper’s review.

Rafe and I had just started our first year of high school that Fall. Although we were still good friends, our lives seem to diverge more and more with each passing month. Beyond Rafe’s interests in basketball and baseball and with that little hussy Kelly Richards hanging around, there was precious little opportunity for me and him to spend much time together. Not the way we used to.

I found myself having more female friends than male friends in school. For whatever reason, they liked me more than boys did. I wasn’t good at sports or obsessed with getting to third base with girls like they were. But the girls didn’t fancy me as a possible boyfriend either. Maybe they sensed I was more girl than boy, especially since puberty hadn’t really arrived for me at the late age of 15.

But the biggest obstacle in Rafe and I being as close was the fact his dad had fired my dad just that past summer. For good reason undoubtedly. Dad was a bad drunk and it showed in his haphazard attitude toward work. With Metheny Architecture closing in on a mega-million-dollar contract to design new hotels for The Harriot Hospitality Group based in Washington, DC, having an unreliable head of engineering was a real hindrance. My father was still unemployed, claiming Rafe’s father had black-balled him in the industry by spreading lies about his “promiscuous” behavior with anything in a skirt. And my parents’ marriage was hanging by a thread. It was a toss-up as to which one would file for divorce first.

So, it was my dad who didn’t want to hear of me fraternizing with the son of his enemy. Mrs. Metheny, on the other hand, was still friendly with mom, my sister, and me. She would invite us to every social occasion involving her family or her husband’s company. Unfortunately, Kelly Richards’ father worked for Metheny Architecture too and she’d monopolize Rafe’s time at every barbecue or pool day that summer.

I was called back for the second round of auditions and had just finished my 3 minutes of cockney speech that sounded a lot like Bugs Bunny reading from A Tale of Two Cities. I thought Mr. Randolph had just wandered backstage to take a break when he approached me, a big smile on his face. Mom was standing by the coffee vending machine, chatting with Rafe’s mother, yawning between sentences. Rafe’s mom looked just as weary.

“Joseph, my boy. Another fine reading—”

“Thank you, Mr. Randolph. And you can call me Joey. Everyone does.”

“Alright…Joey. I have an idea. An idea that involves you.”

My mother quickly ran over, almost spilling her full cup of coffee. “I hope you’re casting my son in a decent part. You should have cast Joey as Tiny Tim several years. Now he’s outgrown it. So what do you have in mind?”

“Mrs. Prentiss, as you know, competition for these roles is intense. There are many worthy actors in our sleepy little village. Sometimes it’s just a matter of timing—”

“Two years ago, Joey badly sprained his ankle. He was on crutches for weeks. He limped into the next year. And you still didn’t pick him for Tiny Tim!”

“Let’s not rehash old grievances…however legitimate they might be. Today, a genius idea, if I say so myself, came to me as Joey was reading. Such a waste.”

“Waste of what?” I asked, becoming annoyed.

“Waste of beauty. You know, Joey, it’s such a shame you weren’t born a girl. You’d be Hollywood material easily.”

“Hey, you’re talking about my son. Who is definitely male. Admittedly very cute…but in a boyish way. He’s only 15. He hasn’t grown his man muscles yet—”

“Mr. Randolph, that’s very weird of you. Thank you but I’m auditioning for one of the male parts—”

“Oh no, you’re too…pretty for that. I’m casting you in the role of The Ghost of Christmas Present. It’s a stroke of genius. A woman in the role normally given to a man. It’ll certainly give our production a bit of advance buzz. Maybe this year The Times will finally send someone to review it. You’ll be famous, Joey!”

“Helen,” Mrs. Metheny interjected, “you can’t allow this. This will scar the boy emotionally for life, having to act in drag in front of the whole town. Mr. Randolph, whatever kind of perversity you big city theater people engage in, it won’t stand here in Port Jefferson. My husband—”

“I’d like to try it, Mr. Randolph,” I blurted out before my mother could respond.

“Are you sure, Joey? It could be very embarrassing. Think about all the kids in school. Do you want them to laugh at you?”

“They laugh at me now anyway, mom. At least I’d have something over on them. None of them are going to have as big a part as me. It’s not a big deal, mom.” She looked into my eyes and just nodded.

“Okay, Joey. But don’t go through with it if you change your mind between now and opening night. It’s alright. You wouldn’t be letting anyone down. You’ve got to be comfortable with this.”

“I am, mom. I am.”

“Joey, I’m really not a fan of you doing this. Why don’t you do something backstage like Rafe. He’s on the lighting crew. He says it’s fun being a tech. Or you could be assistant stage manager. You’ve got such a good memory; you’ll probably know everyone’s lines better than they do.”

“Well, that’s settled. Joey, come by after school tomorrow and we’ll measure you for wardrobe and see what Mrs. Crampton can do with some makeup and a wig.”

Mom and Mrs. Metheny were still animatedly discussing my questionable decision when Rafe came down from the rafters to ask me what the hub bub was about. When I told him that I was going to play The Ghost of Christmas Present as a woman, his face took on a look of grave concern.

“Joey, the guys in school won’t like that. You’re putting a target on your back. All the time you’re spending with girls, acting like you’re a girl yourself, always sitting with them at lunch…they’ll think you’re a fag—”

“Do you think I am?”

“No, of course not, Joey. Mom says you’re, how does she put it…you’re delicate. A delicate boy. I think Randolph’s off his rocker. Think it over, Joey. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

“So what if boys get violent with me. Would you care?”

“You know I do, Joey. But I can’t be with you every minute of the day. Like I told you before, just watch your back.”

“What would I do without you, Rafe?”

Starting Friday, November 12th, and on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays through December 30th, there were a total of 30 performances of A Christmas Carol. I played The Ghost of Christmas Present in all 30. Although Meryl Streep would have nothing to worry about, my reviews turned out to be very respectable.

My character delivered the main message of Dickens’ story. You can hear the author’s own concern for contemporary morality in The Ghost of Christmas Present’s stern words of opprobrium to Scrooge:

“Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live; what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.”

To Mr. Randolph’s dismay, The Times did not send a reviewer but the local paper and The Long Island Press actually mentioned me, saying I was a young actress to watch in the future. Apparently, the reporters didn’t believe Mr. Randolph when he insisted that I was a 15-year-old boy named Joseph. The caption beneath the picture of Mr. Randolph on stage as Ebenezer Scrooge and myself as The Ghost of Christmas Present identified me as Joey Prentiss, gender ambiguous.

The situation at school was diametrically opposite. Instead of adulation, what welcomed me when I walked the halls of Port Jefferson High School was derisive catcalling and even a few mean, threatening looks from many of the boys. Rafe and a few of his friends (mostly sons of men who worked for his dad) kept the rabble at bay. The girls, for the most part, congratulated me on playing such a pivotal role on stage. Some confessed they were envious of how beautiful I looked in my costume, makeup, and wig. I even received a modest stipend from the village council (hypothetically everyone other than the theater troupe members were unpaid volunteers) because of the positive reviews and increased ticket sales.

After New Year’s Day and after the final performances on December 30th, my almost perfect world collapsed around me as my mother and I were summoned to Rafe’s house for a “discussion” with his parents. My dad was supposed to come as well but, as with other family matters, he’d opted out. He was probably driving around Port Jefferson and Bethpage going from bar to bar, drinking his problems away.

“Matt and I decided to wait until the play ended its run before having this talk,” Mrs. Metheny began. Mr. Metheny sat in his customary easy chair, a pained look on his face. Rafe was trying not to meet my eyes as he sat on the couch with his mother. “Helen, I’m very sympathetic to your situation. I know things between you and Ross are difficult. Matt tried his best to get through to him but…that’s not why we asked you to come over tonight.”

“I think I know what you’re going to say, Sylvia, but there’s nothing wrong with Joey. He’s delicate, like you’ve said before. He’s not gay. He likes girls. The thing with the play. That’s just acting. He enjoys acting…and he got paid a stipend for it. With Ross out of work—”

“Joey’s my best friend in the world, mom. You know that. There’s nothing strange about him. He can’t help it if he looks like that—”

“Rafe, be quiet. You’re too young and too close to the situation to understand. At the very least, Helen, you should get professional help for Joey before it’s too late—”

“I’m not crazy! I…I just like doing girl things sometimes. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to my little sister…”

“You don’t see Rafe dressing up like a girl because he’s close to Sally, do you? Helen, I’m no psychiatrist but it’s shameful how Joey’s had to grow up without any male role models. Don’t hate me for saying this but Ross is one sorry excuse for a man.”

“So, what do you suggest, Sylvia? With Ross being out of work, I can’t begin to afford to take Joey to a therapist. We’re barely scratching by on my teacher’s salary.”

“We’ve been friends for so many years, Helen,” Mr. Metheny interposed. “Let me help you find the right therapist for Joey. It’s something Sylvia and I would like to do if you’ll allow us. We’ll carry the costs—”

“No, Matt, we don’t want charity. And, for another thing, I don’t believe Joey needs therapy. It’s a phase he’ll grow out of. You know, his puberty hasn’t fully taken yet—”

“Mom, can you embarrass me even more?”

“I was afraid you’d say that, Helen. Given your laissez faire attitude on the matter, Matt and I think Rafe shouldn’t interact with Joey as often and as regularly as he has. For both their own good. We both work at Port Jeff High and you know Joey’s been the unfortunate target of derision and even intimidation. While we hope nothing bad ever happens to Joey, we can’t let Rafe get too involved with the whole situation.”

“We want Rafe to devote his time and energy to school, not to being Joey’s unofficial bodyguard,” Mr. Metheny emphasized. “I’m sorry, Helen, but Rafe’s on the fast track to M.I.T. We don’t want any detours. You can see our trepidation in the matter.”

My mother sprung up from her seat and took my hand. “Well, I think I know when we’re not welcome. Come on, Joey, let’s go home. Thank you for a notably unpleasant evening. Goodbye. We can let ourselves out.” As she pulled me out of my seat and led me to the front door, I turned back toward Rafe but his head was down, obviously avoiding having to meet my eyes.

For the next two years, Rafe and I mostly studiously avoided each other. Of course, in a small town like Port Jefferson and a high school class of just under 100, we did run into each other now and again, even had brief conversations. For his part, Rafe always apologized for his parents’ behavior but it was cold comfort. I had had very few friends, even among the girls, and now that Rafe and his cohort had ostracized me, I was an island at school. I kept my nose to the grindstone and studied hard, hoping that Columbia wouldn’t revoke my legacy status so I could afford a college education. I survived but won’t claim I actually thrived during my sophomore and junior years at school.

After a hearty lunch of Shanghai Soupy Dumplings, Bean Curd Puffs, Moo Shu Pork for Rafe, Singapore Curry Chicken for me, and pineapple slices for dessert, Rafe and I walked the two blocks to the entrance to the park at Central Park West and 67th Street for our postprandial stroll through the snow.

We hadn’t spoken much as we ate. I wasn’t feeling loquacious and Rafe seemed to be monitoring my mood very closely. As we trudged through the snow already made slushy by thousands of pedestrians, past the site of the old Tavern on the Green, now a Visitors’ Center, and crossing West Drive, where the finish line of the annual NYC Marathon is located, we followed the path along the north rim of the Sheep Meadow. Rafe stopped a young couple walking hand in hand in the opposite direction and asked them to take a photo of us with his phone. He offered to do the same for them and I stood to the side of the path, snapping pics of the wintry scene with my own phone. By the time Alastair returned from LA, the snow would probably be washed away by the rain forecasted in the coming days.

Continuing east as directly as the path allowed, we came upon The Mall, a formal promenade, lined with tall oak trees, with statues of Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Shakespeare at its southern end. The sight of snow partially covering the heads and shoulders of these literary giants struck a chord in my artistic sensibility and I aimed my phone’s camera lens at them.

“Do you ever regret not finishing your doctorate in English, Joey? You always loved literature and writing.”

“There was a time when I just felt lost. I was this close to ending it all. Discussions about what career I wanted to pursue were the furthest thing from my mind—”

“Yes, I know. Elizabeth. I’m surprised you still see each other.”

“That’s something that happened recently and I wasn’t the one who initiated the contact. It was her daughter Jocelyn. She kind of begged me to see her when I was in Boston last year.”

“I remember meeting her that time I visited you at Columbia. You’d already moved into her loft. I told you then she wasn’t right for you.”

“You were jealous. How could you know after a few hours one afternoon?”

We headed north past the band shell and arrived at the Bethesda Terrace, overlooking the beautifully tiled Arcade, the grand staircases, and the Bethesda Fountain (aka “Angel of the Waters”). As we stood in the shelter of the terrace, we could see the lake, the Loeb Boathouse to the east, and the Ramble directly across the water.

“I know I asked you so many times almost 30 years ago and even at the wedding—”

“Rafe, I gave you an answer every time. You just didn’t accept it.”

“We loved each other, didn’t we? You had already decided to transition—”

“I would have made you the object of ridicule and even disgust in business circles. His wife used to be a man! You’d have lost all the contracts your father worked so hard for so long to procure. You know how conservative the culture was. Still is.”

“Fuck capitalism. I told you then I’d walk away from the firm if that happened. I never gave a damn about my inheritance. Sally could have it all; I didn’t care.”

I turned into the cold breeze, away from Rafe’s eyes, and squeezed his arm. I hoped he couldn’t hear the choke creeping into my voice.

“I believed you, Rafe. And I loved you more than you’ll ever know. My heart was yours from the time we used to ride our tricycles down the driveway of your house. But I could never give you children—”

“Joey!”

“No, it’s not a silly little detail, Rafe. You deserved to have a family like any other man who married a cis woman. You’re a good father. I can tell from the way you interact with Harlow. And the way you talk about becoming a grandfather soon. I could never give you that.”

“Joey…I…” His voice trailed off into silence as he took me fully into his arms and gazed into my teary eyes. We embraced for a long time, just holding on to each other as if we could reach back through the lost years and be who we were 30 years ago again.

A half hour later, we walked past Strawberry Fields on our way to the 72nd Street exit. We would take the subway downtown to Times Square, emerge from the underground, and walk over to 44th Street where the matinee of Some Like It Hot at The Shubert Theatre was set to raise its curtain at 3PM.