Friday, July 01, 2011

"YOU'RE A CHASER, AREN'T YOU?"


There lives, in my part of town, one of my favorite characters in San Francisco. I’m not going use her name in this column because, not only do I enjoy chatting with her at the local hangouts, I’m also slightly afraid of her. Most of the stories I’ve been told about her involve at least a little blood. Like most transsexuals in the Tenderloin, she looks like an old showgirl — who can cut you in half with a nail file. I was taking one of my late night strolls when I bumped into her coming out of a small market. She was holding a bag of groceries . . . and wearing a full mink coat. Trotting out of the store and brushing her long, blonde hair away from her thin, chiseled face, she saw me and smiled. We hugged and chatted a bit.

“How’s your living situation, darling? Still couch-surfing?” she asked.

“No, I’ve upgraded to a mattress on someone’s floor.”

We laughed a little and she lit up, “Well don’t feel too bad. I got released from SF General again last week. They kicked me out because I kept sucking off the Filipino orderlies during our smoke breaks. Anyone who says Asian men aren’t hung have never sucked a Filipino. But enough with this, let’s go in and have some coffee,” she said.

“Oh, I can’t, it’ll keep me up.”

“What are you, a Mennonite? I have to be up early too. I need to figure out a way to get to New York this week. Joey Arias stole my wig! C’mon, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. We’ll talk. Why doesn’t anyone just like to sit and talk anymore?”

It had been a while since I visited with her. Her wild, disjointed and unbelievably fantastic stories have supplied me with material for years. I agreed to hang out and off we went to our favorite bar. “I don’t drink anymore, you know that,” she told me. “I just love their awful coffee.” Once there, being the gentleman, I offered to carry in her groceries, and she giggled. She gave me her bag, pushed her coat up around her Adam’s apple and we went inside.

The bartender served us our coffee as I asked her to tell me again about some of the interesting things she’s done. She’s always happy to oblige.

“The other night, I saw the documentary about the Cockettes going to New York sometime in the early ’70s. Weren’t you performing with them around then?” I asked.

“I was, but I spent more time with them in Europe than New York. We all just packed up and went to Amsterdam one day. That’s where I met Bowie, Iggy Pop and Siouxsie. Everyone came to see us. But to be honest with you I’d rather not talk about it. Although it was magical, it wasn’t all champagne and glitter. One day I was holding hands with Bowie in front of The Hague, the next day I was hooking in a trucker bar in Texas.”

“With truckers in Texas? Did they know you were a tranny?”

“Those boys just saw big titties and hair when they looked at me. I had tits like butter — soft and smooth and firm. I really sold it all up top. But, as time went by, the titties started to droop. So I got my lips done. You’ll often see older women wearing large rings to draw attention away from the liver spots on their hands. Well, I use my fabulously large, silicone lips to hypnotize men from noticing my saggy boobs.”

Her lips are gigantic. They really are the most striking characteristic about her. “You used silicone?” I asked. “I’ve heard about ‘Pump Parties’ where the trans girls get together and shoot each other up with silicone they buy at Home Depot. It’s very dangerous.”
“Oh no, this isn’t that stuff,” she said. “I used high-grade, European, tranny silicone. And yes, I know about the girls down in LA with their parties. I knew a young queen who went to one of those. She showed up to the party with $300 under her wig and dreams of a big, round butt. She woke up the next day lying on the bathroom floor with no money, no wig and bathtub caulk dripping out of her butt cheeks. The doctors had to cut off most of her ass. It took months to heal. She dated One-Eyed-Bobby in LA for several years — a tranny chaser. He was an ex-con, of course. They all are. Anyway, he took care of her as best he could, but she never really recovered. How could she?

I dated Bobby once. This was before he met her. He took me with him to New York in 1978 and left me at Max’s Kansas City. He caught me blowing Jim Carroll in the bathroom. I think I was a victim of the times, really — cocaine and women’s empowerment. You understand? You’ll be surprised to know I believe in the institution of marriage. I’ve always said. ‘Any girl who doesn’t want to get married is a dyke.’ You ever think about getting married?”

“No. I don’t think I’d make a good husband,” I confessed.

“Oh, nonsense,” she snapped. “There’s a lid to every pot. I almost got married once. I was in LA in 1982; I was still punk then. I was spending time with Henry Rollins. He ran with tranny chasers, though he wasn’t one himself. He had a roommate that fell in love with me. This guy used to keep empty soda bottles on the floor near the mattress he slept on. I couldn’t figure out what they were for. Later, he confided to me that his kidneys were failing. He’d get up four or five times a night to pee in the bottles so he wouldn’t have to keep walking to the bathroom. We’d make love and I’d look over at the bottles full of piss, right there on the floor next to my head. Things like that can affect a girl. But he was a good man.”

She stared off into space for a second, then looked at me. Her personality had suddenly changed, as it often does. She examined me.

“You’re a chaser, aren’t you?” Why else would you spend time with girls like me? It’s okay, you can tell me about it. It’s like talking to your doctor about where you got the sore on your dick from. We’re professionals.”

“No, I like men,” I told her. “I just don’t want to get married.” The bartender overheard her interrogating me and was staring at us like he knew something was about to happen.

She leaned over and grabbed my arm. Pulling me closer, she whispered in my ear. “Come back to my place. I’ll make a call and get a mountain of coke for you.” I looked down as she spoke and noticed she had unbuttoned her coat, revealing her breasts. They hung stiff and unnaturally away from her skinny chest and had a bluish hue to them. I looked further down, toward her groin to see if she still had a penis. But, before my eyes could get past her belly, the bartender walked up to us and yelled at her, “Goddamnit, put some clothes on! I told you not to come back here if you plan on making a scene!”

She released me, smiled and threw her head back, laughing. Then, leaning over across two of the bar stools next to her, she brought her coat down around her shoulders, and exposed her breasts to the entire bar and began to sing aloud ...

“No one here can understand me,
Oh, what stories they all hand me,
Make my bed and light the light,
I’ll be home late tonight,
Blackbird bye-bye!”

The patrons clapped and whistled at her as she snapped back up on her stool. “So, will you be my lover?” she asked me. “I’m very kind and selfless.” Before I could tell her no, the bartender came from behind us and reached out to grab her. In one movement she buttoned her coat, grabbed her bag and headed for the exit. “I’ll be right back, I have to find my dress!” She ran out with the bartender following. I threw some money down and walked after them.

I roamed a few blocks, looking here and there for her. Right before I was about to give up and go home, I came across a group of bums camped out in front of an abandoned storefront. One of them smiled and reached out and grabbed me, “Wait dude! Wait for it!” Then, from each corner of the intersection nearby, the crossing signals for the blind began going off at the same time. The chirps ricocheted off the walls behind us. It was an eerily beautiful sound. As the bums and I stood there, sharing the moment and smiling at one another, I could hear my lady friend cackling somewhere in the distance. She mimicked the chirps of the signals and then began singing her song again:

“Make my bed and light the light,
I’ll be home late tonight,
Toodle-ooo! Farewell!
Bye bye!”
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