Am I Man or A Girl?

Chapter 10 - Clinging to the Shadows

My legs felt sore, but nowhere near as bad as when I last attempted this distance. That had been quite a few years ago. I was without my car because of a compressor replacement for the AC. All I had to do was walk through the main area, slip past the elementary school I went to a long time ago, trudge along a stretch of dirt road, make a right to follow a fire station, and then continue through several plazas till I finally got to my destination.

That trek was during turbulent fall weather when I needed to take an umbrella to block the worst of the wind, along with a jacket. It made my meal when I arrived doubly satisfying, however I had to wait until my body recovered for the trip back.

Arriving at the bookstore wasn’t quite as satisfying this time. It was closed already. The same went for the other shops. But this existed as a proof of concept that I could walk from home to here by myself.

Still, it was pointless, and I wore myself out getting here for nothing. Sounded like me. Across the street, in blazing bright opposition to the darkness that enveloped it, was a 24-hour market attached to a gas station. I took the crossing carefully since the most active part of the city, even late at night, was this main road that injected cars directly into the Vegas vein.

My sinuses were getting stuffy. Even spitting into the dirt didn’t clear them up. Hopefully, the market had at least a travel pack of tissue. If only I thought to take some before I left. My purse needed to be more lived in like that, like my mother’s immense, floppy kidney bean of a purse. Full of things from decades ago and so much stuff you never knew you needed. I would survive.

“You got… you got a dollar or two… for coffee? Just a dollar for coffee.”

Beside the double doors that led into the market sat a disheveled homeless guy with stark, blond hair in a tangled mess down to his shoulders. He wore a plaid button-up shirt with several holes in it and a pair of almost-black dirty jeans with a rope instead of a belt. He sat on a pallet of soda cans for sale with a black trash bag inside a metal basket on wheels.

My first instinct was to give him a wide berth as I looped around to the door. But I unzipped my purse with my taser and pepper spray resting atop the shadowy pile inside. This emboldened me to not make any obvious detours. Maybe I should’ve edged away a little bit as it smelled like, without even getting close to him, he had taken a shit on the merchandise.

Usually, my standard response was to say “sorry, no” or “don’t have cash”. Since I acquired my phone for payments and even before with my bank cards, I didn’t really carry around cash or coin unless I knew I was going to a place that required it, like a barbershop. This made it easier to flatly deny any panhandlers.

My parents had fickle feelings about giving away money to homeless people. Mom was often realistic and noticed when some made rotations around the city, still trying to collect a few dollars more. She instilled the utmost caution in me about it. Dad became more wide-eyed in his later years and it felt like he was trying to pad his good deeds by giving a ride to a homeless lady wandering around a buffet restaurant once. Or, rather, he guilted me into giving the ride because he professed that it could be either of us someday. She left a musty odor that lingered for several weeks.

What would the new version of my parents say now? Would dad be more protective of his darling daughter? How about mom? Surely, at least for my size, she would’ve given me the talk about how to be careful at night. Clearly, she would’ve vetoed this entire endeavor of walking alone. At least back in college, some nights had the virtue of a sea-sent blanket of fog. And you could walk easy loops around the campus and be guaranteed that security was still milling about. So, what the hell was I doing tonight?

I slipped through the doors and wandered the wild, ivory aisles for stuff I could easily carry back. Most of it was junk food I long ago disregarded. The dusty stack of clinical and homemade face masks earned a snort from me. The microwavable meals in the fridge unit had icy beards suggesting they had been here since this station opened and they showcased ingredients that would only upset my stomach. More durable, salty snacks caught my eye for a bit. Eventually, I decided on some meat, cheese, peanut butter treats, and pickles along with caffeine-free soda. I turned over a bag of hard-boiled eggs until it started dripping on the tile, and I swiftly returned them to where I found them before getting in line.

The only others in the store or in line were ladies. None seemed spooked by the homeless guy when entering. I added a can of chili to my purchase just to give it a little bit of weight, in case it needed to become a weapon. The clerk, a portly middle-aged woman with broad black glasses, her black hair tightly tied into a bun at the top of her head, and a perpetual frown carved into her thin lips, went through the motions of ringing me up. The price was more than I would’ve liked to pay but wasn’t enough to deter me.

The twenty-cent bag had the thickness of a raincoat but a tiny crevice within that barely kept my purchases in place. The handles, by comparison, felt like they were made of tissue paper which would rip apart unless I bunched up the ends into something more like a rope. I briefly visualized how I might have to beat someone with my bag and run. My arms gave me a little, anticipatory pulse of warmth.

More than anything else, I expected the homeless guy would just be gone. He was still there, with his dark hair matted to his face and sprawled over his shoulders. Wasn’t he a blond? It didn’t matter, this was the same guy.

“A fucking dollar? Anyone have a dollar? Fifty cents?! I just need to borrow a quarter for the phone and a coffee. Don’t you have anything, Jacob?!”

Okay, FUCK that! I backed away into the brightest part of the gas station, where there were some cars and folks still pumping. No one looked in the direction of the homeless guy but me. Sweeping my purse behind me with a tight pull of the strap, I had my bag gripped in front of me. The guy started to creep to my right, towards the edge of the lights. That would just take him to the desert and the golf course.

At some point, I had to turn sideways to check my path ahead. When I looked back, he was completely gone. No shifting in the shadows. No rattles from his basket. Just gone. Granted, he was right where the light faded to nothing but not being able to track him kept me deeply unnerved.

Hustling over an embankment, I darted past unfinished sidewalk, managed to catch the crosswalk on a good cycle, and slipped through two lanes without having to wait. Those crappy LED lamps were at least well clustered on this side. I gripped both the pepper spray and my bagged purchases for comfort.

Checking over my shoulder revealed no one walking behind me. Whatever pain and fatigue I might’ve had approaching the two-mile mark for this walk was muffled by a renewed, energetic burst pulsing through my veins. I was committed to this.

The wind didn’t seem like my friend anymore. But then, in a desert, the wind was always a razor’s edge away from flinging havoc. It clapped and slapped and spun all the loose debris, occasionally sending sounds like footsteps to echo at my back.

Another reminder that I would’ve liked to own a gun. Handgun at least, but a rifle or a shotgun loaded with buckshot would’ve been nice too. Fingerprint trigger. Just stand with it aimed away and hope the presence of the weapon would be enough. It hurt to be trapped in my car one night while drunk, laughing bastards loomed in my windows like I was a zoo exhibit they could easily attack. And my only weapon was a glare of determination since I couldn’t use my surrounded car.

Looking like a girl now barely changed anything there. It just added new questions. I just wanted to enjoy a stroll in my hoodie, while feeling cute. Turning onto the next avenue, I realized a weird haze around the lamps wasn’t from me crying tears to myself that I didn’t realize but rather a rare fog actually settling in. Now? Really?

I checked behind me again but the fog was already turning that end of the road into a washed-out, bright blur. After picking at the little grit dams in my eyes and finding no improvement to my vision, I hooked around the corner and just bolted by the entrance to the mobile home park. The wind settled down swiftly with the appearance of fog and the dusty-moist blanket dulled many sounds. Usually, moisture was pleasant, especially against my nose. This time, however, it felt like invisible gnats brushing by me.

Past the entrance to the mobile home park, I took a moment to catch my breath and even held it to listen past my faint, internal ringing. The edges of noises that sounded like steady footsteps or my pounding heart pushed me to swing around and watch. Nothing, same as before. Not even a faint shadow passing through the lights. The light, stray hairs on my neck almost made me jump.

I indulged and welcomed spookiness, but it tended to be a smooth voice recounting distant stories. My usual fears looked me in the face. They didn’t hide and taunt me with unknowns. I doubted this was related to looking like a girl. It was a stupid call to go out alone in the middle of the night, but still the same kind of stupid call I would make all the time. Only at this point, did I realize I had a camera on my phone I could use to record someone and upload the evidence. If I saw anyone. Furthermore, it had a light and all sorts of applications I probably wasn’t even thinking of.

Some flashing alarm. Police siren sounds. As well, my taser had a blinding bulb on it. I didn’t need to be equipped like an army. I already had enough tools, if I was smart enough. That alone cooled my racing heart back to a normal level. Turning my tools into actions that pushed away the foggy darkness with clarity, returned me to the simple slow stepping enjoyment of walking through a foggy night in a draping jacket. I didn’t have to be afraid.

That didn’t mean my guard was completely lowered. I still checked a reasonable amount. Before long, I was back by the apartments and between clusters of parents and children as the little ones tried to grab the fringes of fog with their fingers. The harsh, dusty aspect of the fog faded to moist clarity. The rest of the way back followed with simple serenity.

I still latched and locked my front door when I got home and breathed easiest when I was able to sit down with my bag. The night and the oldest nooks and crannies of the roof still provided random settling sounds to bring my alertness back, if only for a few seconds. The pickles and everything else tasted thoroughly passable and nowhere near the cost. They were my tempered award for a useless trek that seemed to do more bad than good. I washed up a little to shake the drying sweat from curling up in bed with me.

Writing inspiration tickled my fancy but couldn’t build enough flame to ignite into words. I wrote a few notes about Camille and reflected on her with a smile. No new messages awaited me anywhere, so I pulled up a relatively generic podcast about murder mysteries and listened to as much as my mind cared about before drowsiness wrapped around me.

What kept me awake a few times was the needling fear and rooted expectation that morning would find this delicate gift lost like snow in the rain. At least I had a bevy of lovely, vivid experiences to revisit and shape into the perfect words for some random story I might share in the calm corners of the Internet or keep as a private diary.

And that was all I felt before the strange realm of sleep swallowed me up and took me somewhere else.

My first experience upon waking was an awkward cough in my familiar voice with long, dangling hair plunged into my lips like a deeply woven thread. Vague dreams about swarms of zombies followed my hazy thoughts. I often dreamed about zombies of all sorts. Acrobatic circus zombies. Spectral zombies. Massive, animal zombies. Biblical angel zombies. So weird, especially since I wasn’t a big watcher of the sub-genre.

Someone into psychoanalysis would probably make much of the topic or go far afield into esoteric explanations. I knew what it typically meant. Being overwhelmed by a stressful situation not under my control. Decay, loss, and fear. Or feeling like a disconnected zombie from life.

Those were interpretations. I had plenty of stress in my life and loads of uncertainty. It would’ve been nice to have a fully immersive, perfect dream as Maggie.

I expected the drowsy hints of my body to shuffle into the familiar shape of the rest of my life. But it felt strange, in the same way as I last remembered. A good strange. Maggie… Long, bright hair swallowed my ears and itched at my neck. Well, that didn’t make any sense. This also didn’t feel like a dream, but I’ve been wrong before about actually being awake in interesting, stressful, and beautiful dreams. If this was a dream, it nailed the mundane.

Of course, it was absolutely not a dream. Tangibly, I understood this. But, again, I had been tricked before. The most telling sign was the awkward discomfort of my blankets, the warm itch of my locks, and the nefarious seed of sinus pressure against my temple. Dreams contained practice suffering and discomfort, life was the real deal.

I open my eyes and glimpsed the crimson stage curtains which had been drawn closed at the end of the previous day. My eyes blearily watered at this morning-accented shimmer. My yawns almost choked on the forbidden, red licorice around my face.

The bedsheets, as always, drifted to the left as that was the way I often arose. On the right side, the layer cake of colorful blankets had been dissected with the ribbon clump of the fitted sheet spilling tangled, frozen blood. On the other side, it was also off but at least that was easier to fix.

Waking up was still exciting, with the quiet anticipation of another shower.

I met myself in the nearest restroom mirror and fumbled with the little imperfections brought on by a dry mouth and twisting against the pillow. Familiarity concerned me, but I tried to put it out of mind as I stripped to wash up.

It didn’t take much to get me going in there, as I joined in the flowing stream without even trying. Thoughts alone were all that it needed. No matter how much nervousness came from the erotic arousal of just standing there, things happened.

Wrapping my biggest towel from under my arms to around my feet threatened to continue it. I was able to force it down to a shiver. This length of hair, while complimenting me, was not my favorite for convenience. It took another towel and a decent amount of time to dry. Would I trade it back, with my hair in something evocative of a pixie cut? No need to trade, I could just get it trimmed and changed at a salon.

Would mom be willing to go with me to a salon? Would that be something weird? Mom didn’t care about taking me along before, and I did my best at them. I felt nervous and guilty at them. An outsider, unprepared, not dressed up. Sorry, apologies I can’t really express, but you’re not supposed to see me like this.

That was the sentiment. Please don’t judge the little pop of a tree stump at the caustic odors and the pleasant presence. This is all new to me. I should’ve brought along my long hair, my soft face, and my undistinguished nails, to be made up in whatever way is the fashion. They would never ask if I wanted to be waxed. They would never see the way I felt inside. I could feel it vividly whenever I walked through the doors to a salon. The anonymous avatar is piloted forth, as I focus on making sure mom is all right. They expect nothing of me and ask nothing of me. I am just here to wait. Inside, I feel like a feral child clinging to the shadows.

A little girl who crawls underneath basins and hopes not to be found. She hides her tears in shadows. If anyone were to come around, she would immediately bolt for the nearest sanctuary. That’s as far as I developed. Just a little girl, unsure of what all these things do. No fashion sense, no confidence, and no place for them.

Just sit in the corner with my legs tucked up almost to my chin, face hidden away, and wait until it’s all over. I’m not supposed to be here, not like this. That was how I felt. And the reminder did a great job of redirecting my blood flow from the anonymous parts of my body.

Going to the salon might be different now. Maybe I… Might even go together with mom, not just as a helper. Maybe.

I did a little less posing before the mirror this time, but that didn’t mean my appreciation was lessened. Instead, I put time towards grooming. The counter didn’t have the kind of products this face and body really deserved but the worst of the maintenance hadn’t set in yet. Skincare pads did their regular duty. And I made a mental note of what to buy later.

Most of the early morning was devoted to clearing my little laptop table to the point I had so much free and clean space that I didn’t know what to do with it. My arms barely stretched the span. The undercurrent of dust, acquired from the land caked in it outside, wrestled its way to the surface but I sprayed, scrubbed, and lightly vacuumed it back into oblivion.

I still had plenty of morning left by the time everything felt just right with my laptop camera politely covered, even though the video app was ready to go. I dashed away a waterfall of pointless articles online before I decided that I didn’t need the news.

I needed something else...