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The Three KrystalsEpisode 1:Dawn Goes to a Support Group Meeting by Rachael Robbins © Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins Catch up by reading The Conclusion |
A cold wind blew up my skirt as we headed into the church. Jesus, I thought, it's not supposed to be this way in Seattle, the Emerald City. The city of the mild climate. The city where natives frolic outdoors all year long, braving the elements, because it rains all summer too. Mild, hell -- I guess I should have worn pants, like Frenchy, but bare legs are so sexy.
Frenchy accompanied me that evening because of the close temporal proximity between the end of the meeting and the 11:00 showing of "Pink Flamingos" at the Guild 45. I didn't ordinarily like to take her to my support-group meetings because of her disturbing tendency to pronounce everyone there to be "men in skirts." That night, however, I thought it was worth the risk -- I adore John Waters, and my Opel was in the shop.
The Sons of Norway Unitarian Church was one of those bland monstrosities so beloved by upscale, yuppie congregations. Whitewashed exteriors, big picture windows and nary a cross to be seen. Its pastor, the Reverend Niles Oostrand, explained to me that Unitarian churches existed as "spaces where people of all religious persuasions could congregate and find themselves in peace and harmony, congruent with a respect and tolerance for all races, species and life-forms that might be found on Earth and in the Universe at large." A more cynical observer once noted that they're composed of people who never met a god they didn't like.
(Me? I'm a Presbyterian.)
At any rate, Unitarian churches are tolerant enough to be prime stomping grounds for support groups like my own, the Ballard Belles. I mean, really -- can you see Blessed Redeemer Baptist Church of Burien hosting "A Night in the Queen's Court: The Prom we Never Had"? There probably isn't a Unitarian church in town that doesn't have a lurking transvestite or four.
A huge creature smelling of Jasmine perfume blindsided me just inside the doorway and planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I knew without looking that my attacker was Rita Boyles, a trans-something from Renton.
"Dawn, Darling! How are you?" she said.
"Good to see you, Rita." I said, straightening my wig. "You know Frenchy?"
"Oh, of course -- hello, dear." There was a decided coolness to her tone. Like most members of the Belles, she just barely tolerated my associate.
"Where's Johnny tonight?" I said.
"Oh, the little devil's playing cards with `the boys.' One of his periodic attempts to show his boss that he's trés macho. Is that butch or what?"
In case you haven't guessed, Ballard Belles is an open group -- one that works really well. Perhaps that's why people come from as far away as Arlington and Tacoma for the monthly meetings. It is remarkably free of political infighting, and with few exceptions, I like and respect everyone in the Belles . Unfortunately, there are exceptions, and one of them sailed through the door as I disentangled myself from Rita.
Krystal Knight was a plain girl, with narrow-set eyes and a mole on her right cheek that I suspected was fake, but mutual friends assured me was real. The same friends also told me that her unfounded hatred of me was based on jealousy of my glamorous occupation -- it was rumored that she was a box-boy at the Queen Anne Safeway. Could be, but I always suspected it was because of my stunning beauty, beside which she looked like a washer-woman. Unfortunately, she was President of the Belles, having beaten my friend Krystal Waters by the narrowest of margins. Krystal W. subsequently tried to kill herself by watching Annie! five times in a row; Krystal K. just laughed when she heard about it. The bitch.
"Why, hello, Frenchy," Knight said, completely ignoring me.
Frenchy smiled sweetly and said "Hi, Krystal -- you're looking very obsequious tonight."
A look of bovine uncertainty appeared in her eyes. "Why, thank you, dear. Uh, you too." Rita watched her with narrowed eyes as she swept on into the meeting room.
"I wonder, darlings, if she owns a pair of tweezers?"
Inside the Fellowship hall the air reeked of cheap perfume and wig spray. I greeted Jennifer Wilder in her customary position by the door. Jennifer was a large, comely girl -- sporting wild red hair and long nails, she cut an imposing figure. On more than one occasion, she'd politely escorted unwanted weirdos out of the church. She took her job as security-girl seriously; I knew she wouldn't leave her post all night.
Over in one corner, the female-to-male contingent gesticulated wildly and stroked their beards. There was a new guy, slim and bearded, who looked vaguely familiar. He stood off to one side, not mingling with the other FTMs, and I was about to go and welcome him when I heard a breathy voice call my name. I turned to see Krystal Waters herself, seemingly recovered from her humiliating defeat. She had a new girl in tow and was full of bubbly hyper-femininity.
"Hi Dawn," she said. "I'd like you to meet my new friend, Krystal Larson. She spells her name with a `k' and a `y' -- just like mine! Isn't that neat?"
"Neat," I said, and stuck out my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Krystal." She took my hand timidly, and nodded.
"This is Krystal's first time out," Waters continued. "Not bad, eh?"
"Not at all." I smiled encouragingly. "I think frosted blue eye-shadow and white boots are where it's at." Actually, she looked like Nancy Sinatra on steroids -- if those boots were to walk all over you, you wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Ah, well, I thought, we all have to start somewhere, and the girl could learn a lot at this month's meeting. Doug Brill, owner of a beauty shop in Bellevue, was going to be giving makeovers and wig and fashion advice. I just hoped he wouldn't use the poor girl as a `before' example.
We sat down just as Krystal Knight banged the gavel down with a sharp crack! "I hereby call this meeting to order," she said. Krystal had a distressing fondness for "Roberts' Rules of Order", and tried to run meetings with the precision of of a drill sergeant. The meeting clicked along with military correctness, through business old and business new, business borrowed and business blue, until we came to the segment reserved for new member introductions. There were two.
"The chair recognizes Jennifer D'Amore," said Knight. To her credit, she said it with a straight face.
"Madam Chairwoman, I would like to present a petitioner for membership, Rachel Carpenter."
"Will the petitioner rise?"
A large girl in a micro-miniskirt clambered to her feet, wobbling precariously on three-inch heels. Jennifer managed to grab her arm before she pitched headlong into a row of pre-ops in front of her.
"Has the petitioner been examined as to her sincerity and discretion?"
"She has, Madam Chairperson," said Jennifer.
"Do you, Rachel Carpenter, vow to uphold the values of the Ballard Belles, to honor the code of discretion, and to respect and love your brothers and sisters?"
"I do," Carpenter replied, her voice a deep, rumbling bass.
"Then, by the powers invested in me as President of the Ballard Belles, I declare that Rachel Carpenter is a member of this society. Welcome, Rachel." Nobody could recall (or would admit to recalling) the origins of this silly ceremony, but I had to admit that it did give the proceedings a certain solemnity and weight. New members felt that they were joining a select group, one that meant something, and consequently took their promises to other members more seriously. Besides, if a bunch of middle-aged men like the Masons could have secret ceremonies, so could we.
The procedure was repeated for Krystal Larson, who managed to croak out an "I do" when called upon to do so. After calling for any new business (there wasn't any), Knight banged the gavel one last time and introduced our speaker.
Doug Brill was a hairdresser and makeup artist who owned a shop called the "Queen's Arms" in the posh city of Bellevue. It was said that half the female impersonators in the Northwest bought their wigs from him, and that even RuPaul visited when she was in town. He was suavely good-looking, with large, soulful eyes that could set the hearts of even confirmed heterosexuals like me aflutter. I'd helped him out when one of his gold-digging lovers had been kidnapped, and after he made a pass at me (firmly rebuffed, thank you) we'd become close friends.
"Ladies," he began, "Tonight we're going to talk about wigs -- how to choose them, how to style them and how to care for them." There was a good-natured groan from the FTMs, who headed en masse to the refreshment table. I noticed that the new guy trailed after them, and after retrieving a Coke, stood off to one side watching Doug's performance impassively.
I looked at my watch -- it was 9:30. Plenty of time to pig out and make it to the movie, so I got up and strolled over to the table with Frenchy on my heels. One of the FTMs turned and greeted me as I filled my plate.
"Hi, Dawn. Hi, Frenchy," he said. Frenchy greeted him warmly. She gets along all right with female-to-male TSs, although she once told me that she'd spent her whole life avoiding men, and couldn't imagine anyone actually wanting to be one.
"Hi, Bart," I said. "Who's the new guy?"
He shrugged. "Said his name was Bill. Doesn't talk much."
"What new person ever does? I think I'll mosey on over and introduce myself." I walked over and held out my hand.
"Hi . . . I'm Dawn."
"Bill," he said, and took my hand. His grip was firm, and I noticed that his hands were large for a genetic female. He'll do well as a man, I thought, but he's gotta learn to go easy on the cologne. It smelled like he'd taken a bath in Brút.
I stood beside him, watching Doug pull a crossdresser out of the audience. She looked like she had a dead muskrat on her head.
"What do you think of our happy band?" I asked.
"It's okay, I guess . . . do they ever have programs for us FTMs?"
"Of course. In fact, next month a counselor's going to talk about identity management for you guys. Then you'll see all us girls nodding off and heading for the refreshments." We watched as Krystal Knight stood up and slipped out a side door. A few minutes later, Waters and Larson did the same. Bill spoke up.
"Can you tell me where the Men's room is?"
"Sure. Through that door, and down the hall," I said, pointing at the door used by the Krystals. "You want me to show you?"
"No, that's all right . . . I'll find it." And he headed off toward the door. I wandered back to the refreshment table and stood next to Frenchy, who was filling her plate with cocktail weiners.
"These things are great," she said. "Tell me -- do you see any significance here?" She held up one of the wieners.
"There does appear to be a common theme. We seem to have these at every meeting. Freud would have a field day."
"Freud was full of shit. Still," she said, "Boys will be boys. Listen -- don't you think it's about time we got out of here?"
I glanced at my watch. "It's only ten. Let's stay another fifteen minutes . . . I don't want to be too early. There's nothing worse than sitting in a theater, listening to Muzak and being ogled by a bunch of college boys with hormones in overdrive."
She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Dawn . . . you know you love it."
"Besides, I have my eye on one of Doug's wigs, and I think I'll try it on before we go."
I sat down at the table where Brill's samples were displayed and, catching his eye, pointed to an auburn wig and then at my head. He grinned and nodded, then turned back to the girl he was instructing on the finer points of wig styling. I pulled off my own wig and was reaching for Doug's when a piercing, unladylike bellow tore the air. Without thinking, I stood up from the table and ran in the direction of the side door. The other members seemed frozen in shock as I wrenched the door open and plunged through. Looking to my right, I saw a figure in a flowing skirt and blonde wig crumpled on the floor outside the lady's room. When I reached her, she looked up at me with horror.
"Michelle," I said, "What is it?"
She raised a shaking hand and pointed at the door to the bathroom, then buried her face in her hands. By this time, people had begun to gather around us.
"Stay back," I said, "Don't go in the bathroom." Frenchy elbowed her way through the crowd.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Get my purse, please." She was about to protest, but when she saw the look on my face she hurried off. When she returned, I pulled her aside.
"Thanks," I whispered. "Keep everyone out of the bathroom until I've checked it out." The crowd gasped as I pulled the automatic out of my purse, stood beside the door, and nudged it open with one toe.
Nothing happened, so I took three deep breaths, said a prayer, and charged into the room, holding my gun before me.
Inside, I saw the typical row of stalls on my left, with the typical row of sinks to the right. What wasn't so typical was that Krystal Waters was slumped over one of the sinks, a pool of blood at her feet. And straight ahead, Krystal Larson lay on face down on the floor, arms stretched toward the frosted window above; there was a dark stain on the back of her blouse. I lowered the gun, walked over to Waters and felt the edge of her jaw where the carotid was. Nothing. Turning, I glanced over at the row of stalls and froze -- a trickle of red ran out from under the last closed door on the right. Shit, I thought, another one.
I called out "Frenchy, bring me my purse."
The door opened and Frenchy walked through, complaining loudly about not being my slave. She stopped cold when she saw the bodies and the purse fell from nerveless hands. I retrieved it and pulled out my nail file. "This ought to do the trick," I muttered.
Advancing on the stall door, the first thing I saw was a tiny hole about waist high. I inserted the nail file in the little slot in the circular latch and rotated it. The door swung slowly open to reveal Krystal Knight leaning back against the tank, a neat, red hole in her forehead and a look of idiotic bliss on her face. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, and her hand was around her . . . I heard Frenchy come up behind me.
"Jesus Christ," she said. "Couldn't he have waited `til he got home to do that?"