The clutch pedal went limp and flopped helplessly on the floorboard. I was dressed for the first time during daylight hours, and driving up Highway 101 to San Francisco to attend the California Dreamin' Conference. The traffic was stop-and-go, the time around three in the afternoon, and the place the left lane near the Army Street exit. The car was locked in second gear. The blinker worked, so I squeezed across the middle lane, into the right lane, then onto the shoulder, and yanked the shift lever to neutral. The VW had 170K miles (so at least I can look younger than my car). I got out, opened the hood and beheld a clutch cable that hadn't actually broken, but that had popped out of its aged and cracked insulation, destroying its tension.
Without a spare clutch cable in my purse, I decided to wait for help, leaving the hood raised. It was hot in the car, but my Krylon foundation just bought the week before didn't run (thanks Bill Jones). In about a half hour and uncounted heart beats, a CA Highway Patrol tow truck pulled up. I got out to meet the driver who gazed at me with a poker face.
I blurted ``I'm a cross-dresser and the clutch cable broke.''
Still with poker face, he asks ``You with Triple-A?''
``Yes'', says I, and I did have my card. Says he, ``Then I'll call them---they'll get you towed faster than I can.''
So he did. And I thought, ``I didn't have to tell him I was a cross-dresser. It didn't seem to matter.''
So when an AAA tow truck from West Coast Service on 16th Street arrived, I shortened my explanation to say ``The clutch cable broke.'' The driver agreed, and our conversation went along normally, indifferent to the gap between my voice and dress. The driver hoisted the car into the crane, and headed off to the service station with me in the passenger's seat. At the station, more of the same. Show the AAA card, arrange the repair, no problem.
When I finally did get to the conference I enjoyed the many excellent presentations, including pointers on speaking by Maureen O'Connor, and on deportment by Wilhemina Beins, who gives none of us passing grades. I took her advice though, on hips and walking.
On the morning of checkout, I used only foundation and lipstick. The lady at the counter at the Golden Gateway Holiday Inn began by saying, ``Did you enjoy your stay Mr...'' and then corrected herself midsentence to ``Miss Rowe''. I thought she was just being polite (as were the hotel's staff throughout) and whispered, ``Yes.''
As I signed the credit card slip she looked up and said with puzzlement, ``This card is for a different person, is he staying at the hotel to approve your using his card?'' I replyed that he knew I was using his card, and it was ok. Then she suddenly grasped that the card was mine, and the clerk next to her said with a smile, ``He takes care of her.'' Then too, I realized that I had actually passed a test.
In trips to Walgreen's, to the top of the Tower at the Mark Hopkins, and elsewhere, I encountered no rudeness, and often an appreciation for the whimsical. I've been out since the ETVC Cotillion in January, and while horror stories undoubedly occur, my experience says, don't expect the worst, it'll be great.